Twelve Weeks
by Naisa
Summary: Post Reichenbach. Sherlock's death has affected John more than anyone expected, than anyone imagined. He's been driven down into a terrible darkness, and a chain of events over 12 weeks pushes him to the edge, literally. But the only man who can save him is dead. No slash, rated T but there are elements of M. Complete!
1. Prologue

_Due to the awesomeness that was the last episode of Sherlock, I have suddenly had an explosion of story ideas to write about, and this is one of them :) It's about John coping, or rather, not coping, with Sherlock's 'death', and the rest you shall discover as you read! :) _

_I'm not too keen on the name of the fic at the moment, so it may change, and if anyone can think of some better names please say :)_

_Just a couple of warnings about this story before we start. Firstly, I think this story is going to be pretty heavy. Of course, that's subject to opinion, but I just thought I'd say as there are going to be some dark elements. Secondly, some of the chapters, like this one, might be quite short. I haven't written them all out so I don't know, but I've planned the chapters and I think some will be quite brief, so apologies if short chapters annoy you._

_Anyway, I think that's about it, I hope you like the story! Reviews are awesome :)_

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><p><span>Prologue<span>

There's a strange chill in the air, and yet the whole world has fallen still, as if waiting. I realise I've been holding my breath, and let out a deep sigh, but there is no one to hear it. Of course, anyone with some sense in their heads would be indoors and in bed at half three in the morning, but I think I've lost all sense.

It must be cold, but I don't feel it, I don't feel much anymore, even now I don't feel any fear. The only thing I do feel though is the dull ache slowly creeping into my arms as I hold onto the side of the bridge. Thank goodness no one is around to see me do this, no one deserves to see someone take their own life. Believe me, I know.

I look down into the dark, swelling waters below me, preparing myself to jump. There is nothing that can stop me now, my world is as empty and black as the river I stand over, but not for long.

No turning back.

I hope people in my life won't be too upset because of what I'm about to do. The last thing I want to do is hurt friends and family more than I already have done, I just hope they understand that what I'm about to do is for their own good, it's for my own good. I'm fed up with hurting people and I've run out of reasons to live, I'm just an empty machine, it's a miracle I remember to keep breathing.

Not for much longer though.

I wish I could tell everyone that I'm sorry, because I'm sure some won't like what I'm about to do, but I feel I have to do this. There's a strange certainty in my mind that this is the end. No more misery, no more suffering. This is it.

I feel like I'm not longer in control, the invisible hands of fate are pushing me forward, closer to the edge. I can't stop it, and I don't think I want to. The rustling leaves in the trees whisper, daring me to jump, daring me to fall.

Is this how Sherlock felt before he fell?

There is a small voice in the back of my head though, it's not telling me stop, it's just questioning why I'm here. And I have to admit I find myself wondering how, in just twelve weeks, my life has come to this.


	2. The End of the World

_The next 10 chapters or so focus on the events that led up to the Prologue, I hope this chapter's ok! :)_

_Please review! :)_

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><p><span>The End of the World<span>

I just saw my best friend jump.

Those few seconds were the strangest in my life. It was like my brain couldn't work out what was happening. One moment the tall, dark figure of Sherlock Holmes was standing on the roof of St Bart's, right on the edge, and the next he was falling through the air, arms and black coat flailing, like an injured bird trying its best to fly, but the ground was coming up too quickly and its wings would not flap. It seemed my eyes completely missed the moment that Sherlock actually jumped, but I knew it had happened, because he now he was falling, falling so fast there was nothing anyone could do to stop it. There was nothing I could do, I just stood there and stared, while my brain tried to figure out what was really happening, because this wasn't real, I wasn't thinking straight, this isn't happening...

Then there was a terrible thud that brought the whole thing horribly to reality. But it's a reality that my mind refuses to believe.

I couldn't see the body. There was a truck blocking my view. I didn't want to see the body, but for some reason I felt like had to, I needed to confirm if Sherlock Holmes was alive or dead. Of course there were very few people who would be able to survive such a fall, but Sherlock Holmes always had something up his sleeve...right?

I began creeping slowly forward, the body slowly coming into view more and more. People were already gathering around the body, I could see a mop of black hair and dark clothes, I was so close to seeing his face...

Then something smashed into me. I didn't even see what it was, but pain rocketed up my back as I was thrown to the floor. My head smacked against the cold concrete and I gasped in pain. For a moment my eye-sight went fuzzy, I couldn't see anything, my brain was confused, I didn't know what was happening. My senses had become distorted and muffled, the sound of life had become distant, I felt numb, I didn't even know where I was.

Within a few seconds, although it felt like hours, my senses started coming back to me. I suddenly remembered that my best friend was lying on the ground a few feet away from me, he could be badly hurt...or worse. I managed to pull myself off the ground and ignored my spinning head, I was struggling to put weight on my right foot, but I ignored the pain that jolted through me as I ran to Sherlock's side.

There was a group of people around Sherlock's body, so once again my view was distorted, but by now I was becoming desperate. My heart was racing, my breath was coming out in short gasps, I felt like I had run a mile.

"Let me through please!" I somehow managed to cry, as I felt like my throat was beginning to close up, my voice was close to cracking but I tried my best to stay calm. I fought through the wall of people to try and get to Sherlock. "Let me through," I repeated, and I couldn't stop the emotion spilling out in my voice. "I'm a doctor, he's my friend!"

The group of people around me looked up, their faces were full of worry and sorrow, but I didn't see it, they were just faces, empty eyes stopping me from getting to Sherlock.

I tried again, "He's my friend!" but my voice was horribly weak, it cracked under the pressure of emotion as I suddenly found myself in front of Sherlock's body. At first his face was turned away from me and he was lying on his side so I couldn't see him properly.

But then one of the people opposite me, I didn't see their face, turned Sherlock's body over.

And that's when my world ended.

Sherlock's empty eyes stared up at the sky, bright blood was spattered across his face, his hair was wet with it, the red liquid was slowly spreading across the pavement. His mouth hung slightly open as if he was a little surprised that he had just killed himself. But it was his expression in his ice-blue eyes that was the worst thing; they were filled with fear. I could tell he was crying down the phone, and I look down at his face now and realise how afraid he was, and there was nothing I could do to help my friend.

"God no," I don't know where the noise came from, but I think the two words were uttered from my lips as I looked down on my motionless best friend. I couldn't feel my legs any more, they buckled under the pressure of realisation and I sank to the ground. The people beside me grabbed my arms and tried to keep me standing, it didn't take them much effort, I felt as limp and weak as the man lying in front of me.

Yet somehow my brain still does not believe that this has happened, the medical side of me still needs proof, because it's impossible that Sherlock has died, that sort of thing just...doesn't happen. He must still be alive. My hand reaches forward and takes his still-warm wrist and I search desperately for a pulse, but a hand pulls me away from Sherlock's wrist before I can be certain that my friend in alive or dead.

_But what chances are there? _Asked the resigned part of my mind. _He's gone._

That's when it hit me.

An ambulance appeared out of nowhere, I didn't even hear the sirens. It's as if the world I am standing on has stopped spinning, but all around me time continues, people are moving and speaking and acting. The paramedics haul the lifeless body of Sherlock Holmes onto a stretcher and rush him into the ambulance, as if, like me, they still think there's a chance that he's still alive. But everyone knows that you couldn't survive such a fall, from such a tall building. No matter who you are, we're all mortal in the end.

A comforting hand of a stranger reaches out towards me, but I shrug them off and shake my head. I don't need their help, I try to pretend nothing's wrong, even though I told all the people around me that the dead man was my friend and then collapsed in front of them. I appreciate their concern, but there's really nothing they can do for me now.

I do the strangest thing after that. I go home. I don't even get a TAXI, I just walk, unaware of how much time passes as I slowly make my way back to 221B Baker Street, not knowing what sort of state I must look like to passers-by, they must look at me and think someone's died.

Someone has.

When I finally get home I do nothing but sit in the chair, opposite the one Sherlock always sits in, as if waiting for him to come home, but realisation slowly dawns on me that he will never sit in that chair again.

Whenever I close my eyes I see Sherlock's empty eyes, his limp body, the puddle of the blood on the ground. So I just stare sightlessly for God-knows how long into the gloomy distance, but my mind cannot help thinking about the last words he said to me before he jumped. As if all that had happened wasn't enough, I think it was the phone call that actually broke me.

Sherlock Holmes, my companion, room-mate and best friend, was a liar and a fraud. He had just admitted to me that he had deceived everyone, and his guilt was so strong by the end that he threw himself off a building.

I wish I couldn't believe his last words, but I don't know what to believe any more. My life has turned upside down, the world is empty.

Little did I know then of the chain reaction that was set off because of this day, that one phone-call and the death of a best friend, or a fraud. I didn't think it would be the beginning of the end, because everything had already come to an end that day.


	3. The Funeral

_Sorry about the delayed update, I've had a really busy week._

_Hope you like the chapter, please review! :)_

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><p><span>The Funeral<span>

They've set a date for the funeral. Which is impossible, because Sherlock isn't dead. I keep on expecting the door of 221B Baker Street to bang open, and the crazy-haired detective would rush in, sometimes covered in blood, sometimes wielding some sort of weapon that looks like it hasn't been used since the fourteenth century or sometimes muttering and moaning or jumping up and down in excitement about a case. But no one runs up the stairs, the wind's just blown the door open and then shut again with a loud thud, reminding me that I'm still alone.

Over the past week, I have hated this loneliness, as I long so much for some other sort of human company. I was so used to having someone else with me, Sherlock was around almost all the time, but now there is just me. However when I get the opportunity to meet someone, when the phone rings or there is a knock at the door, I find myself unable to answer them, because all of a sudden I prefer to be alone. I'd much rather shrink into my own shell and not be disturbed, I get angry when I discover that I am no longer alone, and I want nothing more than the person who has disturbed my peace to leave, and quickly.

So now some people (I don't know who they are, I certainly have nothing to do with it) have organised a funeral and sent me this solemn invitation - little A5 piece of card through the letter box, slim, black letters, slim, black border - and I find myself unsure if I should go.

My therapist says I should, she claims this will help set in my mind that Sherlock is gone and will not come back, and therefore help me to move on. For once I see her point, not that I really believe it will work, but it's worth a try, and I also think it should be the right thing to do. It's important to pay your respects to those who have passed, other people will be there too, looking glum and talking in soft whispers. People will expect me to join them on this sad occasion, so perhaps I should.

But on the other hand I don't want to go, because I don't want to accept the fact that Sherlock is dead. The thought of him being lowered into a hole in the ground to decay seems impossible, something that cannot even be imagined, but it's not in my head, it's happening for real. And I don't want to see the people who will be there. I'm not entirely sure who's going to be there, but I'd be surprised if Mycroft wasn't there, or Molly, or Mrs Hudson. Lestrade might even be there, despite the fact that he and Sherlock never really got on and he did try to arrest him at one point. I'm not sure about Donavan or Anderson, they never did like Sherlock and were the first to doubt him.

The trouble is, I don't think I'll be able to stand being around these people. Mycroft was the one who told the whole of Sherlock's life story to Moriarty, so he was able to spread the lie that ultimately destroyed Sherlock (God, I hope it was just a lie) and it was all for Mycroft's own, selfish needs. Does he even care that his brother's dead? I hate him for what he did to Sherlock. Then there's Molly and Mrs Hudson, who I don't want to talk to as they just make me think about my best friend more, and the fact that he's dead. Molly was probably the one who signed off his body, and, bless her, it will probably crop up in conversation if she starts talking to me, she's never had good conversational skills. I've been avoiding Mrs Hudson as much as I can, because she knows I'm upset and wants to try and talk to me about it, but I don't. If I go to the funeral I can't really avoid her or ignore her. Lestrade in the meantime probably hates Sherlock for making him look like an idiot and lying to him all this time, and I don't really want to talk about that either.

On the day of the funeral Mrs Hudson comes upstairs to see if I'm coming with her. I still haven't made my choice, so I tell her that I feel unwell but might come later if I get better. I can see in her eyes this makes her even more worried, but she just nods and leaves the room, and a few minutes later I hear the front door close as she leaves.

Then I am consumed with guilt.

_How could you? _Growls a voice in my head, _how could you just hide away at home while your best friend is being buried? How could you be such a coward?_

And I feel like I need to see proof again, like when Sherlock jumped, I need to know it's him being buried, I need to be certain that he's dead, because in my mind, he's so alive.

_Coward. _Repeats the voice in my head. _Where is your respect?_

That's it. I grab my coat and rush out of Baker Street as if the bitter voice in my head is chasing me down the stairs. I hail a TAXI and head to the churchyard, I shouldn't be too late, I can still see it happen.

It doesn't take me long to reach the Church and the graveyard, so grey and dull despite the shining sun. There are no birds in the trees, the flowers seem drained of colour, even the grass as turned brown. It looks like life if slowly being drained from my world.

I see a few black figures in the distance, looking like crows surrounding something I cannot quite see. A man in white stands before them and talks in a low murmur. As I come closer I can see a grave and a coffin between the black figures.

Sherlock's funeral.

I don't get much closer after that, my approach creates a slight disturbance and a face turns around and looks at me. It's Mycroft.

Rage fills me. Despite the fact I knew he would be at the funeral, I don't want him to be. What right does he have? He killed Sherlock, I wouldn't want my murderer at my funeral. And he looks so solemn, as if he is so surprised and saddened by this occasion. He shouldn't be surprised, he caused this, and his sad face makes him seem innocent in the whole thing. In my eyes, he is no longer an innocent man, there is blood on his hands.

I can't go any closer. I don't want to disturb the funeral or get any closer to Sherlock's murderer. He'll probably try to talk to me, and I might end up punching him in the face. Once again I feel like a coward for not going up to the grave, but I don't care, so I keep my distance by the trees that circle the graveyard and watch the funeral from there.

Within a few moments of standing by the trees the coffin is lowered into the ground and lump grows in my throat. The figures around the grave are silent while I want to scream. Because it's not Sherlock in that coffin, this can't be Sherlock's funeral. How could he be dead?

Thank God I'm only watching this from a distance, if I was within that crowd I would break down.

After a couple of minutes the mourners turn away from the freshly dug grave and walk through the grim graveyard. I sink into the shadow of the trees so I am not noticed. I recognise the faces that go by. Mycroft (I try not to scream his name in anger), Mrs Hudson (it pains me to see her so sad), Molly (why does she look so awkward, as if she feels like she shouldn't be here?), Lestrade (trying to keep a straight face, but his eyes give away his sadness and confusion) and surprisingly Donavan (she looks a little angry about something, perhaps she was dragged here.)

Unfortunately I quickly discover that my hiding place was not the best choice, as a few notice my silhouette and stop and stare, trying to work out who or what it is. Mycroft probably knows it's me, but he walks on, deciding not to bother me. Molly and Donavan both catch sight of me, but both just look confused and then quickly move on. I breath a silent sigh of relief when all the figures disappear from sight. I didn't like that one bit, it's not nice having to hide from your friends, but it could haver been even worse if they found me.

At least I am alone now. I consider going up to the grave and pay my respects, maybe dig it up to make sure it's not Sherlock in there. Because how could Sherlock be in that coffin? It's impossible.

But then I realise I'm not alone.

There's a figure, hiding in the trees like me. I can just see their silhouette, but because they're on the other side of the graveyard it's hard to recognise them.

It's a very tall silhouette, tall like Sherlock. Could it be...?

But then I blink, and the figure has disappeared. Just my desperate imagination, no person, no Sherlock. I just hope the whole event hasn't turned me mad.

With that heavy thought in mind, I forget to go to the grave and pay my respects, I just walk home with my head down.


	4. Kitty Riley

_I hope this update's all right :) just one review for the last chapter! :(_

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><p><span>Kitty Riley<span>

There was something telling me not to go outside today. As I gazed out the window on the dull London morning, my stomach gave a jerk as if my body knew something bad was going to happen before my brain did. I knew it was a warning, I'd had this gut feeling a lot when I was serving in the army, telling me something was going to go wrong. The feeling got worse when I considered going outside, but for some every strange reason I ignored it, and within a few minutes I had left the house and was walking down the street.

I'd started walking a lot recently. It was the only thing that kept my mind off of all that had happened, there was something about the crisp, cold air and the constant motion of my legs driving me forward that made me feel like there was a little less weight hanging over my shoulders. There were other things around me to keep my mind working, keep me thinking about the outside world. Once I'm indoors there is nothing to stimulate my brain, the rooms are stuffy and dark and all I can think about is the empty, staring eyes of Sherlock Holmes as he lay dead before me.

I'm not sure how much time has past since his funeral. The minutes, hours and days had slowly started moulding into each other, my sleeping and eating patterns had changed so I couldn't determine from them what time it was through my body clock. I knew it had been a while after the funeral that I decided to go out again, as whenever I looked out the window there were journalists at the door, waiting for me or Mr Hudson to come out so they could badger us with questions about Sherlock Holmes.

Why couldn't people just leave us alone? Didn't they think that we were in mourning and needed a little time for ourselves? Sometimes Mrs Hudson threw open the door and tried to chase them away, some of them actually got pretty scared of her, which was strange, who knew Mrs Hudson could be scary? But it wasn't very long until the journalists gave up and left us be, no one was coming to the door to tell them anything interesting, and I think Lestrade put them off as well. Once I saw him drive up the 221B Baker Street, get out and talk sternly to the journalists standing around the front door, looking like stray dogs waiting for a scrap of food. I don't know what he said to them, but after that there were no more journalists at the door.

I should of known though, you see it on the television, you hear people talk about it, journalists never leave you alone.

As soon as I left 221B Baker Street I headed straight for Regents Park. It's not far from Baker Street, and I enjoy going there just to get out of the way of the busy, polluted London atmosphere, it's quieter and calmer and I feel like I can breathe a little easier.

I was standing over a bridge*, staring down at the water below me, calm and clear like the park surrounding me, but there was something about the river that didn't seem right, there was no sun reflecting off the dark-blue waters, so it lost its shine. I leaned over the side of the bridge and watched the water gently and slowly flowing by, almost hypnotising me so I started to forget why I needed to leave Baker Street and go on these long walks, trying desperately to leave memories behind.

I thought I was completely alone, but then...

"Don't you ever get bored, just standing there staring at the water?"

I turned around to discover a woman standing on the bridge a few feet away from me, watching me closely. I recognised immediately who it was, with her ginger hair tied back in a loose pony tail and the dark eyes slightly narrowed - it was the journalist, Kitty Riley. The woman who believed Moriarty's stories and started to tell the world Sherlock was a fraud. I was so surprised to see her I just stared for a moment, memories flooding back that I had just started to subdue. Finally I murmured:

"What are you doing here?"

Riley shrugged, "it's a park, people can walk through it if they want."

I didn't trust her answer. "Did you know I come here?" My eyes narrowed as I spoke and my voice had suddenly dropped to a low, dark tone, as if I was threatening her.

Riley didn't seem intimidated by my voice, she just shrugged again. I wish Sherlock was here, he'd know what to say, he'd know what to do if he wanted to get rid of someone. I couldn't look at her, I looked back down at the water below me, but she was there, in the corner of my eye. "I was hoping to come across you sometime," she admitted.

"Why?"

"I wanted to talk to you."

I shook my head, pulling myself away from the edge of the bridge and looking at her full in the face. "Sorry, but I don't do interviews." I hope she knew there was something a lot worse that I wanted to say to her, but I decided to try and remain polite for as long as possible.

Riley took a step forward. "This isn't an interview."

I took a step back. "What is it then?"

"I just wanted to know how you were," Riley explained, "I felt a bit sorry for you after our last encounter, especially when I heard after what Sherlock Holmes did to himself, and the fact he had lied to you all along-"

"Shut up," I snapped before I could stop myself, I could feel my face beginning to burn with fury. How dare she even think that Sherlock had been lying to me for all the time I knew him, that he lied to everybody, that he was nothing but a fraud...

"You still believe in him?" The corner of Riley's mouth twitched, as if she found the idea amusing. "John, can't you see that it's obvious? He couldn't live with his own guilt, and that was why he killed himself-"

I began backing away from her a little further. Every word she said sent a bullet into my chest. Sherlock Holmes was my best friend, I trusted him with my life, there is no way he could have simply 'pretended' to be a detective. I hated these thoughts that she was putting into my head, it made me think of the last words he said to me down the phone...

"It's not true!" I yelled. I didn't mean to shout, but I was getting so angry with this journalist. How dare she say such horrible things about a man who saved so many lives?

Riley took another step forward, her face quizzical, as if she couldn't make sense of why I was getting so angry with her. "But John, I understand it must be hard for you, losing a friend, but the only way you can begin to move on is to accept the truth about him."

"Understand?" _Understand?_ _You will never understand what it's like to lose someone who turned your life into an adventure, you will never know what it is like hearing your own friend tell you that he was a liar, and then stare down into his empty, dead eyes..._I thought to myself as I glared at I couldn't bring myself to say any of those things, I was too much of a coward, so instead I simply told her, with my voice as calm as possible; "no, _you_ will never understand the truth about my friend."

And before Kitty Riley could say any more of her cold, bitter words, I turned around and ran away from the bridge. I ran away from that horrible, lying journalist and away from the thought that Sherlock was a fraud. I didn't look back, I just ran all the way to 221B Baker Street. When I reached home I leaned against the door at took a deep sigh.

I felt like a complete coward, running away like that. But that's all I wanted to do, run away from the truth.

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><p><em>*I must admit I have no idea if Regents Park has a bridge, so just go with the flow :)<em>


	5. Fourteen Days

_I'm afraid this chapter is rather uneventful, I hope I'm not boring people with my story so far!_

_Please review :)_

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><p><span>Fourteen Days<span>

I have made a rough estimate of how long I have locked myself inside the house. My methods are not the most modern of techniques, but they appear to be working. I count how many times the light slowly disappears outside my window and I am plunged into darkness. Fourteen times that's happened now, my tired brain manages to work out that's two weeks. But that's ridiculous, I have not been in here for two weeks, it feels like only yesterday that I fled from the journalist all the way to 221B Baker Street like a coward, locking the door behind me.

Then again, sometimes it feels like I've been in here for two months.

At first Mrs Hudson tried to talk to me, she knew I was upset, more than during the first week after Sherlock had...Anyway, she didn't want to disturb me so she tried to communicate with me through the door. Her sweet voice tried to coax me out, persuading me to tell her what was on my mind. I blocked it out.

This only made me feel worse, like I was letting Mrs Hudson down in some way by refusing to talk to her, but what could I say? There are no words to fill the empty void that I find myself living in.

There is nothing for me to do here, I cannot bring myself to write my blog, what can I say? Sherlock Holmes is dead. You all think he was a fraud. And I'm starting to believe that he betrayed me too. I don't have the energy to do any cooking or cleaning, and other than those options I find myself with nothing else to do. I am completely listless.

Another dull light rises over the window covered by the curtain. You know Sherlock used to think that the sun went round the earth, the solar system wasn't particularly important to him. For me, the world has stopped spinning entirely.

I'm lying on the floor. I have no idea how I got there, but the way my back is aching suggests that I've been there for a long time. I stare up at the bland ceiling, my dark mind strangely absorbed by it, as if it's the most fascinating thing I've seen for the past fourteen days. I'm not sure if I've managed to fall asleep or not, time appears to have passed quickly, but then again, time seems all over the place these days. What takes a minute feels like an hour, yet lying around doing nothing lets time pass smoothly and easily.

Perhaps as more time passes, I shall think of something to fill this void, to amuse my empty head, to lift up my heavy heart. It hasn't worked yet.

Perhaps hiding from reality will make some improvement on my life right now, to keep the curtains close and continue believing that the earth has stopped spinning for everyone else as well. That hasn't worked either.

But I refuse to go outside again, especially what happened last time. Sometimes I make the occasional glance out the window, and anyone on the Baker Street road immediately becomes a journalist waiting hungrily for me to come outside, or someone to mock the death of my friend.

I keep the curtains closed.

I pull myself up from my peculiar position, squinting through the pain of my aching back as I begin to move once more. I take a deep breath once I manage to get myself into a sitting position, leaning onto the front of my chair, but this does nothing to clear my head, my mind is as foggy and dark as the world around me. Sometimes I feel desperate to get some fresh air, I want to get out of here and run away from this place full of memories, but I decide that perhaps it would be better to just stay inside, away from people's judging eyes. I'll just sit here like this all day doing nothing, because there is nothing else to do. When I discover however that from my sitting position I am facing the very chair that Sherlock always used to sit, I suddenly find the energy to get up and go to the kitchen.

The fridge and the cupboards are almost bare, but that didn't really bother me, I didn't have much of an appetite. In the end I make the decision to put the kettle on, perhaps a strong coffee would help clear my mind.

Don't get me wrong, I know I'm being pathetic. The most productive thing I've done all day is stand in this kitchen waiting for water to boil. I am sulking like a child because life hasn't gone the way I want. I have a mind of a grumpy teenager, believing that my whole world has gone black and I'm falling into a pit of despair.

Sherlock wouldn't let me do this. Sherlock would force me into a game of Cluedo or have me running after him through the streets of London as he chases a serial killer. Sherlock...

Sherlock's dead. His dead eyes stared up at me from his blood spattered face as he lay on the ground, his body broken...

God, I can't stand being in my head any more. My thoughts have become so dark and desperate. There is no adventure to keep my mind off the black future I seem to be heading towards, or let me escape from the terrible, yet recent past. I sigh, what's the point anymore? All I can see when I close my eyes is Sherlock tumbling to his death...

A soft knock on the door suddenly brings me back to my senses. I remain perfectly still in the kitchen, as if I'm afraid of what might be outside the door.

"John?" Called the soft, tentative voice of Ms Hudson. "I'm just going to the shops John, do you need anything?"

I don't respond. I remained motionless.

There was a brief pause, then I heard Mrs Hudson's voice again, sounding more resigned. "All right then, I won't be long."

There was the sound of Mrs Hudson's footsteps as she made her way downstairs, then the front door closed behind her. Before I had felt like I was the only person in this house, but now I was completely alone.

I go over to the window, peeking through the curtain to watch Mrs Hudson leave Baker Street, a pang in my heart as I didn't even have the courtesy to say goodbye.

There's a figure standing on the other end of the street that for some reason catches my eye as I look out the window. It was hidden in shadow, but I could see the tall silhouette, like the one from the graveyard.

I looked away for a second to watch Mrs Hudson turn the corner out of Baker Street, and when I looked back the figure had gone.

That's it. I'm going mad. Too long I have been cooped up in this place, that's the problem. Too many thoughts, too many memories. The part of me that is still sane points out that I would have to go outside sometime again, and I definitely needed some fresh air if I was starting to hallucinate.

That helped me make a decision. I turned from the window, grabbing my coat as I went and marched out the door. It didn't matter how long I was outside, even for only a couple of minutes, just as long as I got out of this damn, stuffy house with far too many memories of a dead man. Fourteen days I had been in here, I had to get out.

Looking back, I realise what I terrible decision I had made as I left my home-made prison of 221B Baker Street.


	6. Guilt

_I couldn't think of a good name for this chapter, if anyone can think of a better one suggestions are much appreciated :)_

_Anyway, hope you like the chapter! Please review :)_

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><p><span>Guilt<span>

I'm not sure how long I made it walking down the road, five minutes, maybe even three, when tje car pulled up beside me.

I didn't recognise the car, it was pretty new though, with an '11' number plate and not a scratch upon its silver, shiny surface. I caught sight of its badge - Mercedes - before it stopped just in front of me. I already had a feeling what this was all about, I had been in this position before, and my thoughts were confirmed when a man dressed in a suit got out of the car and opened the door for me.

The blood rushed to my face and I could feel myself boiling over with rage. I backed away a little, as if I was afraid of the car. I shook my head vigorously.

"No," I said sternly, "I'm not in the mood, I don't want to talk to _him_."

"Mr Holmes said you might say that," commented the man still holding open the door. For a moment when he said the name Holmes I thought he meant Sherlock. But I knew it wasn't Sherlock. "But then he said you'd come anyway, and you've got no choice in it."

I made an odd growling sound, like frustrated tiger trapped in a cage, because I knew this man was right. Even though there was no real sign that getting into this car was an order rather than an option, it certainly felt like it. I could always try to run away, but it would be a tired man on legs versus a car with several hundred horse power. The man, still standing there patiently with the door open, looked pretty big as well, I don't think I would be able to put up a decent fight against him if it came to a chasing game.

There was no way around it then, though I desperately wished there was. Perhaps I can do something or something will happen that will be able to distract the man and I can run for it. But somehow I knew nothing like that was going to happen. I might as well get it over and done with.

After another few seconds of hesitation, I slowly stepped inside the car.

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><p>I was taken to the smart, strangely quiet building I had gone twice before on a trip to Mycroft, once voluntarily, which now seems absurd.<p>

Sherlock's brother was sitting in a comfy red chair in the corner of an empty room full of other chairs like it. He was reading a newspaper but looked up and smiled when I approached him, offering me a chair opposite him with a lazy wave of his hand. I did not take up his offering, nor did I return the smile, I just stood there, glaring at him, trying my best to control my anger.

Mycroft appeared a little perplexed about my refusal to take the offering, but instead he gave another smile and said. "Sorry to be summoning you like this again John, but I really couldn't help myself."

"I'm pretty sure you could." I muttered. I glanced down at the chair sitting opposite him. Despite a car journey in a comfortable seat, my legs felt strangely tired, as if I had walked the whole way. Sitting down suddenly seemed very tempting, but that would be what Mycroft wanted.

"I just wanted to know how you are." Mycroft explained, deciding to ignore my last comment. "It's been a long time since I've seen you."

"Not long enough," I grumbled, deciding that if I was going to try and remain patient by staying here without running off, I could be as rude as I liked towards this man, even if he was the British government, or that's what Sherlock claimed anyway.

If it wasn't for his selfish brother, Sherlock might not be dead.

Mycroft's smile faded at this remark, and was replaced with a look of concern, which I considered to be even worse than the fake smile. Still he tried to make conversation. "So, how are you John?"

I had a feeling I may be staying here for a while, Mycroft was going to extend my forced visit here with every conversational topic possible. At this thought I decided to take the offering of the chair before replying, "I don't think that's any of your concern."

By the look on Mycroft's face, he had been expecting that answer, or whatever answer he was expecting, he knew it wouldn't be what he wanted to hear - the actual truth about how I am. "Please John, I'm merely concerned about you that's all."

"I thought you didn't care about people?" I replied, bitterly. I was going to make this as difficult as possible for Mycroft, and besides, he didn't care. He didn't even care about his own brother.

"That's because things like this don't happen every day," Mycroft pointed out. I knew when he said 'this' he meant Sherlock's death. He couldn't even say it, did he feel that guilty? "And besides, it has been a while since I've seen you."

"Well you don't have to be 'concerned' with me," I muttered. "I'm fine."

Mycroft gave me a look that I didn't like, as if he was trying to read my mind. "No you're not."

"No of course I'm not!" I snapped suddenly. My outburst took Mycroft a little by surprise, but I wasn't, I had been waiting to burst for quite a while. "My best friend is dead, he told me he was a liar and then he threw himself off a building and smashed into the concrete. Everything I thought I knew about the last two years of my life died with him. How do you _think_ I'm supposed to feel?"

There was a pause, Mycroft opened his mouth to respond, but I hadn't quite finished yet. There was something I desperately wanted to say, and since I'd already snapped, I might as well tell him what else I felt.

"And you're his murderer."

I said it very quietly, very calmly, but Mycroft looked like he had been slapped in the face. I've never seen him look so surprised. I suppose he thought no one knew his dark secret.

"What are you talking about John?" He spluttered.

"Don't pretend you don't know what I mean. If it wasn't for you, telling Moriarty all of Sherlock's past for him to manipulate and destroy, he would still be here."

Mycroft sighed, as if he was talking to an irritating child. "That's not true..."

"So Sherlock wasn't a consulting detective at all then? Moriarty wasn't lying when he told the world Sherlock was a fraud?" I demanded. I felt so angry, did Mycroft not care about what he did to his brother at all? My life is bad enough right now, he's just going to make it worse.

"You don't understand John..." He began, but I didn't want to hear any of his pathetic excuses. I didn't want to be here at all.

"No," I said bitterly. "You're the one who doesn't understand the chaos you've caused, and you didn't even help Sherlock when he was being driven to the edge. You always pretended to care by getting people to spy on him, but really you didn't. You just focused on your own greed to get whatever information you wanted and damned the consequences, and I bet you wouldn't change anything even if you could." My voice was strangely calm as I spoke, but I could feel the anger bubbling underneath the words, and I could see the look on Mycroft's face, he could feel my anger as well.

"John..." He began.

But I'd already had enough. "Just leave me alone, and don't bother me again!" He hissed, almost jumping out of the chair in desperation to get away.

But I had stood up too quickly. The world suddenly became a blur, all the colours in the room mixing together and beginning to spin. I'm so dizzy I feel sick and my legs sway dangerously. I shut my eyes tight to try and block out the spinning, I'm not sure if I'm going to stay standing or even pass out.

A hand suddenly seizes my arm, and I open my eyes, the dizzying feeling slowly ebbing away now I have some support, to see Mycroft standing there, holding onto me. He had leapt up from his chair in such speed I didn't think he could muster. His eyes were full of worry now.

"Are you all right?" He asked.

"I'm fine," I cursed my voice for sounding so shaky.

Of course Mycroft couldn't be satisfied with that answer. He continued to stare down at me. "You look awfully pale John."

"No, I haven't had time to go the tanning salon recently." I snapped. Part of me knew he was only trying to help, the rest of me didn't care.

Mycroft was giving me that look again, like he was trying to read my mind. "When did you last eat?" He asked me suddenly.

"That's none of your business." I replied, because I couldn't remember the last time I ate, or sat down to a proper meal. I hadn't had much appetite since I lost my friend.

"John, I think perhaps you need to talk to someone-" Mycroft began, but at this another wave of anger hit me. Why should he be suddenly so caring about _me_? He should have given the same attention to his brother when Moriarty turned up, and the way he spoke made it sound like I was crazy.

No, I wasn't interested in his concern or his advice.

"Just leave me alone." I growled, pulling my arm out of his grip and rushing out the room before he could say anything else, trying to ignore my spinning head.


	7. Diagnosis

_Hope this chapter's all right :) please review!_

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><p><span>Diagnosis<span>

"I think I'm going to diagnose you with depression John."

The eyes of my therapist are full of concern, something I don't usually see from her expressionless face, but her worry is met with my cold eyes and a heart that is filled with denial.

"There's nothing wrong with me." I replied bitterly.

My therapist sighed at this, looking back down at her notes, I knew what was coming, and I didn't want to hear it. A list of reasons proving why she was right and I was wrong. It was these things that made me consider if perhaps the whole world was turning against me.

"I'm sorry John, but the symptoms are all there." She said. "You've lost interested and motivation in your hobbies..."

"Well I'm not exactly going to run around solving crimes by myself am I?" I snapped. I was going to make this as hard for her as possible, I don't care if she's just trying to help, I don't want her help.

The reason why I told myself why I'm really here is because I don't have anything else to do. I had missed the last couple of appointments due to a sudden fear to leave the house, but I knew I had to get back outside again and actually do something, if I didn't I would start to rot, and this was the best excuse to leave. And I did know that I needed to talk to someone, although I desperately didn't want to, the small, rational part of me that remained told me that I needed to let out whatever was on my mind, even if it was about a rant of Mycroft kidnapping me. It would also stop my therapist from ringing me up every few hours because she knew I was purposefully missing her appointments. She was the only person who rang the home phone and if I went to one of her appointments perhaps the shrill ringing would stop filling my ears.

Unfortunately, I was not liking this outcome of visiting my therapist.

"One of the symptoms of depression is aches and pains, and you said you were getting unexplained pains in your legs." My therapist continued.

"That was from too much walking, my legs were tired, everyone gets tired legs." I told her, avoiding the fact that I had hardly walked anywhere for them to start aching.

Still this did not falter my therapist. "You've also not been sleeping well."

"So my sleeping patterns have changed a little? Why should that matter?" I snapped.

"You've become irritable and intolerant of others."

"Only when they diagnose me with illnesses I don't have," I snarled, though I knew she was right, my patience with everyone had been running short.

"You've stopped eating..."

Immediately I became suspicious. The last person who questioned about my eating habits was Mycroft, and I knew he had somehow gained knowledge of my therapy sessions, could it happen the other way round as well? "Who told you that?" I demanded.

But my therapist ignored me, which made me even more annoyed, she just continued with her useless list.

"And you've been constantly sad for the past few weeks."

"I'm in mourning!" I almost yelled. "I lost a friend! Can't people just let me be unhappy for a little while?"

My therapist sighed, "I know John, and people mourn in many different ways..."

"Exactly, and it's only been seven weeks!"

"...But you must understand I would not say this unless I was pretty confident with the diagnosis." My therapist sighed suddenly, as if she was about to tell me something that she had never wanted to tell me, but she was desperate to try and win me round to her view. "And I had a feeling that you were experiencing these symptoms before."

She waited patiently for me to react, probably to snap at her again, but I said nothing. I merely glared at her and waited for her to continue.

"When you first started coming to see me," my therapist began, "you had the same listlessness, tired and at times irritable manner that you have now, only they weren't as bad. I was concerned that perhaps you were starting to develop depression, which would have been understandable after all you had gone through, but then your friend Sherlock Holmes turned up and within days your symptoms had started to disappear. In a matter of weeks there was no longer any need for you to see me, you had found a purpose, but..." She paused. Still I didn't respond, so she continued tentatively. "After Sherlock died the symptoms have returned. I suppose I should have expected them to, although..."

For once my therapist seemed lost for words, she wasn't sure what to say that wouldn't upset or anger me. After a short pause she gave me a sad smile. "I'll get you started on some medication that will make you feel better, in the meantime I would recommend going to your doctor, who will probably be able to confirm my diagnosis. Keep visiting me and try and get plenty of sleep, eat well and do lots of exercise, that will help."

There was a short pause, I had a feeling the session was coming to an end, so I stood up and turned to leave. I didn't have anything to say, I didn't want to say anything, and I know my therapist would probably know what I was going to say anyway. That every word she had just said was a complete and utter lie. There is nothing wrong wiyh me.

But then she called back to me:

"If you want my opinion John,"

"Which I don't," I told her bluntly, wishing that she could just let me go. I don't want to be here anymore, I suddenly felt trapped, desperate to escape.

"Sherlock was never good for you from the start, it's because of him that you are like you are now. Keep away from people like him in the future, then things will work out better in the long term."

A therapist should know what is going on inside your head, that's why you employ them, so they can help you find a way out of your problems, because they know how you feel and how you think. But this therapist had no idea what was going through my head, and she had everything totally wrong, especially about Sherlock Holmes.

He was a great man, perhaps the best thing that even happened to me, and I certainly don't have depression.

I left the room and I didn't look back.


	8. Phantom Depression

Phantom Depression

Depression is a common mental disorder that leads to severe despondency and feelings of hopelessness and inadequacy. It is caused by a low amount of serotonin in the brain, but there can be other triggers such as a serious life event or being unable to control unpleasant experiences*. For me, I suppose there was a huge life event that I can't avoid and I can't try and convince myself it didn't happen, the memory follows and around and haunts me like a ghost, and however hard I try to turn my back on it I can no longer believe that Sherlock is still alive. But surely all of this is just because I am in mourning? How can you tell the difference between sadness after a life event and depression? How does my therapist know how much serotonin I have? She doesn't, of course she has no idea, she's just guessing, trying to find something wrong with me out of spite. I don't think she ever liked me.

I sit at the table in the kitchen and stare down at the packet of antidepressants I have been given to help cure this phantom depression. I've been taking these tablets for about a week now, positive that nothing would actually change because of this medication. I know me, and I don't have depression, so they'll make no difference to my mind.

But I was wrong, they've made things worse.

Before I thought I was feeling sad, lost, in mourning, and I thought that things couldn't get any worse for me. But they have. My mood has taken a turn for the worse and I can feel something eating away at my heart, a terrible darkness that will not leave me be. Not even sleep can bring salvation, because sleep has become impossible.

My therapist told me to eat, but I can't eat. It's like I've been starving for so long I forget what it feels like to feel hungry, at first I tried to eat as much food as I could stomach, but I've given up now. I don't even have the motivation to swallow.

I've never been like this in my life, never before have I felt so low, never before has my mind been so dark, my soul infected with this terrible disease of sadness. I just shut myself away, lock the door and pull the curtains tight around the window, I don't let any natural light into the room as if it will burn me. But then I just sit alone and curse myself for acting like such a fool and a coward, and I hate myself even more.

Why should I feel like this? I'm being so selfish, to think that I am suffering so much, when there are many who have suffered a lot more than I ever will. Those who live in poverty, rape victims, people beaten and taunted because of who they are, people who have had terrible accidents and illnesses that fate cannot explain. To list all of them who have experienced a life worse than mine would take hours, and I don't have the motivation. Why should I shroud myself in self pity when nothing has happened to me? When truly I should be grateful for all the things that I still do have? I'm being such a fool.

This isn't who I am. It's these tablets, this damn medication that I don't need so they're making me feel an emotion beyond misery. What's the point in taking these things if they're only going to make me worse?

I refuse to go to the doctor and I don't talk to my therapist. She has made our sessions more frequent but I have missed them all so far, her concern can be heard whenever the shrill landline phone begins to ring, and I try my best to ignore it. But doing so makes me feel strangely guilty, like I'm letting someone down. In the end I unplug it so I my dark thoughts are no longer distracted by the phone. I'm even more alone than I was before.

I look down at the packet of pills in my hand with a growing sense of resentment, it was only when I started taking these drugs that things have got so much worse and so far not any better. I am even more listless and irritable than before, and when I close my eyes I still see the empty, dead eyes of my best friend staring up at me.

No, agreeing to take this medication was a bad idea, I'm better off without it.

I stand up suddenly, as if gripped by a sudden motivation to actually do something in my life. But it doesn't get me very far, I only walk over to the bin.

There was nothing wrong with me, I only changed when I started taking these tablets. If I get rid of the medication, I can go back to the way I was before, because I'm not ill, I'm just in mourning, and I shall mourn on my own terms.

I am _not_ sick.

I threw the box of pills in the bin and walked away.

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><p><em>*This is not an exact definition of depression, there are lots of different psychological and biological explanations (according to my psychology textbook), this is just John's point of view.<em>

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><p><em>Apparently anti-depressants can cause depression, so this was where I was trying to go with in this chapter. Once again I couldn't think of a very good name for this chapter either, so suggestions for better ones will be appreciated :)<em>

_If anyone's interested I've just finished writing another Sherlock story called 'The Darkest Moments' which looks at the thoughts and emotions of characters after Sherlock 'died'. Some of the thoughts are quite similar to what is seen in this story to, so feel free to have a read :)_

_Only 1 review for the last chapter! :(_


	9. The Grave

_Has anyone noticed anything strange about story traffic stats recently? Mine have been acting up weird lately, I don't know if it's something to do with the stats, or that people have just stopped reading my stories! Lol, bit awkward..._

_Anyway, hope you're still enjoying this story, please review! :)_

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><p><span>The Grave<span>

"John?"

That gentle, yet worried voice brought my out of my mysterious stupor. I was not quite awake, but not quite sleeping either, just...existing. For a moment I forget where I am, I am sitting on something hard and cold but leaning against some harder and colder. I feel the rough ground beneath me and remember that I am sitting on the grass, I feel the ache in my back and remember that I am leaning against a gravestone. Not just any gravestone, his.

I blink in the bright, cold sunlight to see Molly Hooper looking down at me, a concerned look on her face.

"Are you all right John?" She said.

"I'm fine," I croaked, my voice dry and my whole body aching as I try to sit up.

I had decided to visit Sherlock's grave again, I'm not sure what I planned to get out of it, but at least I had made the decision to do something. Despite throwing the drugs away, I have not got any better. I am just as miserable, listless and irritable as I was before, I am still not like who I once was, and this thought makes me angry. I think I set off to Sherlock's grave because I wanted to ask him why he had killed himself, why he had put me through all of this and why he wasn't there for me. Of course when I got to the grave I had no idea what I wanted to say, and felt like a fool talking to a pile of earth and asking obvious questions. The memories of when I had last been here, the faces of the mourning, haunt me a little, and I think I can see their faces out of the corner of my eye as I stood before the grave.

It wasn't long before my legs started getting tired, so I sat with my back to the grave, wondering how it was possible that this was as close as I would ever get to the consulting detective again. A few minutes later, or perhaps it was hours, Molly appeared, with obviously the same idea of paying a visit.

"It's been a long time since I've seen you..." Molly begin, twiddling with her hands and looking very unsure about what to say. At least some people don't change much. "How have you been doing since the..."

I shrugged, "I'm fine," I repeated.

"You don't look it," Molly muttered almost darkly, which wasn't like her. I looked up at her face and she appeared angry about something.

I have to admit it was nice seeing Molly again even though for the last few weeks I didn't really want to see anyone. But she was a friend of Sherlock's, she trusted Sherlock and didn't start to doubt him, because there was nothing to doubt...right?

"Do you still believe in him?" I suddenly found myself asking her.

Molly was slightly confused by the question, "believe in who?" she asked.

"Sherlock of course!" I tried not to snap at her, I had no need to be angry at Molly, what had Molly done? She had always been a nice person, a little awkward sometimes, a little shy perhaps, but nice.

"Oh right...yes I do still believe in him," Molly said hurriedly, she then started looking at me in a way I did not like, her head cocked slightly to one side. "You really don't look fine you know."

I simply shrugged again, not sure how to reply to this, though denial had been a good way of life for me recently. Molly continued to watch me carefully, like she was examining me.

"You look like my dad," she said suddenly.

"What?" I had no idea what she meant by this.

Molly immediately became shy and awkward again when she realise what a random statement she had just made, she began fiddling with her hands a little more. "No, no, I mean...my dad, he was dying and he knew he was dying. He kept on laughing and trying to joke about it, but when he thought no one was looking he looked so sad because he knew he was dying, and when the time was coming closer he started to get pale and thin. You...you look like pale and thin as well, and you look so sad. You look like you're dying. You look like Sherlock."

I felt like I had just been hit with a sledgehammer. "Sherlock?"

Molly looked like she wished she hadn't said anything, her eyes were full of regret and sadness as she nodded. "Sorry...I thought you knew, Sherlock said to me he thought he was going to die..."

I put my head in my hands and stared into the darkness cupped within them. Sherlock knew he was going to die, Sherlock had realised he was going to have to kill himself, but he said nothing to me. He didn't confide in a friend that his end was coming, he didn't ask for me help, he didn't warn me. He just let me watch...

And I was dying too?

There was a shuffling of feet beside me, and I knew that Molly was still standing there, probably looking and feeling more awkward than before.

"I wish I could..." Molly began suddenly, breaking the silence and making me look up. She looked deep into my eyes with some sort of desperation, as if she was hoping I might be able to read what she thought behind them. "I wish I could tell you everything, John. But I can't, because things will get better, with time, it wouldn't have happened otherwise...you just need to stay strong."

I never thought Molly to be one of these fate, everything must happen for a reason sort of person, but I nodded, and said nothing. I didn't understand what Molly was saying, because no good had come out of this event so far, and she didn't realise that I had lost all my strength a long time ago, and I was running out of ways of how I was going to live through this. About two months had passed since the event, and for the first time in ages I had a friend standing beside me. Surely things should start to get better by now?

But things had not got any better and that friend did not last, as after a long pause Molly broke the silence:

"I'm afraid I'll have to get back to St Bart's now John...promise me you'll take of yourself won't you?"

I nod, looking down at the ground while I listen to Molly's slowly retreating footsteps. There is nothing more to be said to her, I decided not to tell her promises were made to be broken, she was only trying to help, and I appreciate her for doing so. But I've lost all my strength and I am beyond the simple help of a friend.

I have gone so far into this darkness, I have become like Sherlock. I look like death.


	10. A Monster

_Warning: This chapter contains a strong swear word, so beware those who may have sensitive eyes/ears!_

_Oh and my traffic stats seem to have gone back to normal now, so must have been something to do with fanfiction, in case any of you guys also had something similar :)_

_Only 1 review for the last chapter! :(_

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><p><span>A Monster<span>

If I had known what was waiting for me outside my bedroom door, I would have just stayed inside my room until it went away, no matter how long that would have taken, hours, days, I don't care, I would have hidden myself away because that would have been the safest place to be.

But I didn't know what was waiting for me out there, and I wasn't aware of the trouble it would cause, because it wasn't a monster. No, although she may not act like it, she is human.

I heard some strange movement outside my bedroom door that day - the creaking of floorboards, the clicking of high heeled shoes. My tired, dark mind immediately became curious and suspicious at the same time. For a moment I thought Kitty Riley had come back, and it took a lot of effort not to burst into the room and attack her, but something told me that it wasn't the journalist, and anyway, I didn't have the energy to attack anyone today.

After another minute or two of hesitation, I pushed my bedroom door open and peered into the living room.

Standing in the middle of the room, looking around a little disdainfully before her eyes met mine, was Sally Donovan.

"There you are," she said curtly, "Mrs Hudson said you hadn't gone out, I hope you don't mind my intrusion."

"No offense, but I mind very much indeed," I muttered, stepping into the living room and glaring at Donovan. This woman brought back too many unpleasant memories for me, mind you, everyone does.

My response frustrated her, and she let out a sigh. "I know, you don't want me to be here, and to be honest, I don't really want to be here either, but I was beginning to worry about you, and it was Lestrade who sent me."

"Lestrade?"

Donovan nodded. "He's been really concerned about you recently, especially when you didn't answer any of his texts or calls, but he's so busy at the moment he decided to send me over."

I wasn't sure of what to make of this. Lestrade was worried about me? Well I suppose that was...nice of him. To be honest I had completely forgotten about him, there had been other things on my mind. But he really didn't have to send anyone over, I didn't want to talk to anyone.

"Well you can tell him that I'm fine, and you can be on your way." I said, managing to force a smile.

Unfortunately this wasn't enough for Donovan. "You don't look fine."

"Yes other people have already told me I'm not looking too great, but you can tell Lestrade there is nothing to worry about, I'm just preferring my privacy right now," I explained, making my way over to the door and opening it for her. "I would offer you a cup of tea but we're out of milk." Oh no, why did I say _we_? I'm the only one living in this apartment now! How could I forget? I hoped Donovan was raising her eyebrow because of my poor excuse, not because of the wrong personal pronoun. "And I'm sure you've got lots of crimes to solve so I shouldn't keep you here. Thanks for stopping by anyway!"

Donovan didn't move, she was looking at me very closely, taking in my tired eyes and my thin body. "But you're not fine," she said slowly. I just rolled my eyes at this, but then she spoke again. "It's _his_ doing you know."

At that I closed the door, I had a horrible feeling this meant she was not going anywhere. "I don't know what you're talking about." I grumbled.

"Come on John, you know perfectly well _who_ I'm talking about, and I did warn you when you first met him, Sherlock Holmes was nothing but trouble."

I stared down at the floor. "I know, but it was my choice to make, not yours."

"I know it wasn't, but you should have just listened to what I said to you in the first place, Sherlock was nothing but trouble, and now look what he's done to you."

Did Donovan not know that the man was my friend, and I was currently in mourning for him? Why she had to say all these horrible things about him I don't know. "I told you, I'm fine," I murmured between gritted teeth.

"But you're not, and it's all his fault!"

"Look," I snapped, "I'm sure you've got better things to do than lecture me on what _was_ my personal life, so why don't we leave this conversation for another day?" I opened the door for her again.

But Donovan still hadn't finished. "And I knew all along there was something more to this man, I should have worked out a long time ago that he was a fraud."

I felt like banging my head against a brick wall. "I don't care what you think of him, but Sherlock Holmes was _not_ a fraud, now can you please leave? I'm very busy."

"No you're not," Donovan almost laughed. "And you can't hide from the truth forever John..."

I was going to do my damn hardest to try though. "Well I think that's for me to worry about, don't you?"

"He's ruined your life John, the sooner you accept that Sherlock was nothing but a liar and a cheat, the sooner you can move on."

Her words were drilling into my skull, into my heart, and yet the voice inside my head was still desperately screaming "_She's lying, SHE'S LYING!"_ I felt like I was about to break down. I screwed my eyes tightly shut and saw the dead, cold eyes of Sherlock Holmes staring up at me...

Oh God, I can't live with this anymore, and the monster was still standing in my house, taunting me with her words.

"Can you please just leave?" I almost begged.

Donovan didn't move. "I'm only trying to explain to you John that at the end of the day the result was inevitable, so I don't know why you're still beating yourself up about it..."

How can I put my feelings into words she'll understand? "Can you please just fuck off!"

Sergeant Donovan stopped in mid rant and stared at me. It seems she finally got the point.

"Fine," she murmured. "I suppose you wouldn't accept my advice back then, you won't accept it now." She made her way to the door and looked at me closely. "Goodbye John, I hope one day you'll be able to come to your senses and realise that I was right."

And with that, she was gone.

As soon as I was sure Donovan had left, I sighed and collapsed into a chair, putting my head in my hands. She was only trying to help, but she had no idea of the damage she had just caused. I felt like I was going mad and wondered how long I would be able to survive living like this. Not even my house is a safe place from the people who are prepared to torment me and nothing that is being said or done is making me feel any better. I can't think of any way of escape this.


	11. Nail in the Coffin

_Sorry about the delayed chapter, and I feel I must apologise once again for the fact that this story is a little slow at the moment. I wanted to make it realistic so there haven't been many extremely eventful things happening, which I suppose explains why reviews have been a little low recently, there hasn't been much to say so far! But hopefully that will change very soon..._

_Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter, it contains John's sister, Harry, but I'm afraid I don't know that much about her, please correct me if I get something wrong about her._

_Reviews much loved, as always! :D_

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><p><span>Nail in the Coffin<span>

I've run out of things to live for. I know that sounds horrible, but it's true. Even I know I have become an empty shell, and this is not what living is for, there is no point on me being on this earth any more, in fact it would probably be more productive if I was rotting in the ground. Sometimes I feel like I'm already dead.

What a horrible thing to think, since when has my mind started thinking like that?

But I have not quite reached the end of the hope yet, there is something, something that is keeping me alive, or rather someone.

If I die, Harry will have no family. It's just me and her now, and she has enough issues with her own, still struggling with relationships and keeping off the alcohol, I couldn't kill myself, it seems too selfish, as I hate to think what such an act would do to her.

Oh no, Harry.

I hadn't spoken to her in months, she must have been trying to contact me, I've been abandoning her for so long, she hates it when I don't contact her.

More feelings of guilt tumbles down onto my shoulders as I begin desperately looking for my mobile phone. I have a feeling I must have dropped it down the side of the bed or the sofa, I hadn't looked at it in ages, I was fed up of it buzzing so I threw it somewhere where it would be silent.

Finally I found it, knocked under the cupboard in my room. I had 39 missed calls and 213 unread messages.

Oh boy, that's not good.

I sat on my bed as I scrolled through the messages, not bothering to read them, but just seeing who had sent them. There were a fair few from Mycroft, which made me angry, and some from Lestrade, which surprised me, and a couple from Molly. The others were from unknown numbers or from the mobile phone company, but over a hundred of them were from Harry, and so were most of the missed calls.

The feeling of guilt just got heavier.

I didn't want to ring Harry, because then I would have to talk to her and she would be able to hear that there was something wrong with me, and then I might have to tell her all that was going on in my mind, and I didn't want to burden her with that. Besides, I was feeling guilty already, her voice would just make me feel worse.

Thank goodness she wasn't the sort of person to visit people's homes, I hate to think what her older brother must look like.

In the end, knowing it was a cowardice way out, I sent her a text:

_Sorry I didn't reply to any of your messages, my phone's been broken x_

It was only a couple of minutes before I got the reply. My heart lifted a little with the joy of being able to talk to my sister, I didn't realise how much I had missed her, but then I read the message, and my heart sunk like a stone:

_I can tell when you're lying, even over text._

Oh no, she was not happy at all with my recent silence. I sat there, trying to think about how to reply, when my found buzzed again:

_I heard about your friend, I'm sorry, why didn't you talk to me? x_

Well, at least she was sounding a little more forgiving, butI really didn't know what to reply to that. Everything might come spilling out that I was hoping to avoid:

_I've been busy x_

After less than a minute, my phone buzzed again:

_He was the only thing keeping you busy in your life. You're lying to me again. Why haven't you been talking to me?_

Maybe she wasn't feeling so forgiving,this conversation was going downhill before it had even started:

_Look I'm sorry I haven't been able been able to contact you, there have been other things on my mind. _I tried to tell her, knowing that it probably wouldn't work, but at least I wasn't lying this time.

My phone buzzed again:

_You always seem to be doing that, I thought being your sister I may be of some importance in your life, but even after Sherlock's gone you seem to find better things to do than talk to your sister. Did you not think about what was on MY mind after you had left me with so many weeks of silence? Does family not matter to you anymore?_

This is getting worse and every word she said stabbed at my already battered and bleeding heart. Perhaps I shouldn't have contacted her after all. I couldn't think of anything to put that would try and solve the problem.

In the end, I simply put: _I'm sorry, but you wouldn't understand._

A foolish thing to say at the best of times, I know, but what else could I say? And did anyone truly know what was going through my mind right now?

I felt like turning my phone off so I wouldn't be able to see Harry's response, because I knew it wasn't going to be full of forgiveness for what I had just said. Unfortunately I didn't have time to make the decision to turn my phone off before I got another message:

_How would you know?_ _I wouldn't understand because you never tell me anything, you just block me out of your life, I try my best to try and fix our problems but you just don't want to know. I hardly see you, you hardly speak to me, you have no idea what you put me through sometimes when I hear these stories on the news about bombs and murderers, yet you don't give me a second thought. I thought you were meant to be my brother?_

But I wasn't, because I was a terrible, awful, dreadful brother. That's what she was trying to say to me, that's what I saw she meant, and I knew what she said was right. I had let my sister down, the only family I had left, and I had let her down.

And then, like the final nail in my own coffin, Harry sent me another text:

_All right then, maybe I got this whole sibling thing wrong, maybe we're not meant to care about each other, because sometimes I feel like I don't have any family at all, my brother is just a stranger. That's all you've become to me._

Harry Watson was the one person who was keeping me alive, and I had pushed her away from me. Through my own selfishness I have destroyed the only thing I had left in the world - family. I sank from the bed onto the hard floor, my mobile phone falling from my limp hands and clattering to the ground. My vision started to blur and blacken as I felt I was being sucked into a whirlpool of emptiness.

My sister has no idea of the damage she has just caused, because I don't think I have any more reasons to keep on living through this hell.


	12. This is It

_My friend Gina (fanfiction name F.T.L Everdeen-Holmes) has made a youtube video for my book I currently have the on the Kindle - Poppy Girl. It's really good and really funny, so please check it out! :D Her youtube name is ginaiswin :)_

_Anyway, I hope this update is ok, thanks for all the reviews for the last chapter, please keep them up! :D_

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><p><span>This Is It<span>

There's a strange chill in the air, and yet the whole world has fallen still, as if waiting. I realise I've been holding my breath, and let out a deep sigh, but there is no one to hear it. Of course, anyone with some sense in their heads would be indoors and in bed at half three in the morning, but I think I've lost all sense.

It must be cold, but I don't feel it, I don't feel much anymore, even now I don't feel any fear. The only thing I do feel though is the dull ache slowly creeping into my arms as I hold onto the side of the bridge. Thank goodness no one is around to see me do this, no one deserves to see someone take their own life. Believe me, I know.

I've finally reached the end of my tether. I tried to keep on living, I tried to keep going, but there was no point any more, I didn't have anything left to live for. I just couldn't keep going the way I was, I was just a machine, doing nothing more than breathing, simply existing without a purpose.

It was a few days after I had spoken to Harry that I decided to come to the bridge. I hadn't heard from her since, I hadn't heard from anyone, I think I'm dead to the world. The day I was spoke to her was the day I snapped, but I tried to keep myself going for as long as possible, thinking that surely there was a better way out than death.

I have found no other way out.

The image of the bridge at Regents Park kept on appearing in my mind. I kept on thinking about the calm, peaceful water far below that I could just disappear within forever. There was a sudden certainty in my mind when I gave up trying to sleep and made my way to the bridge again.

I know some people might be upset or angry to find out I have done this. Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, perhaps even Harry. But in the past twelve weeks I have changed so much I might as well be dead to them already, and I can stop weighing down on their minds and they can move on with their lives. I just hope they understand why I am about to do this, and I wouldn't do it if there was another way out of this hell, but there is none.

I climb over the side of the bridge, so I am almost directly above the water, now there is nothing between me and oblivion but the sides of the bridge behind me and a few inches of concrete beneath my feet.

I'm not scared, I wish I was somehow, but whatever the afterlife is must be better than how I am living now.

To think that once I begged to live, and now I am purposefully taking it away, it seems like such a waste, but I feel it would be more of a waste if I kept on living as this empty shell, not going anywhere, no aim, no reason, just sitting all alone with my broken soul and my nightmares.

A gentle breeze brushes past me, the leaves rustle and whisper, as if daring me to jump. Or maybe the world is bidding me farewell. I am certain that I will die tonight, but the world will just keep on spinning as if nothing has happened. It doesn't seem fair in a way, but I also feel like I have thrown away my life, so I shouldn't feel selfish and don't deserve to keep on living on this earth.

Twelve weeks ago, I never thought I would end up doing something like this, but a lot can change in a short space of time.

The dead eyes of Sherlock Holmes staring up at me still haunt me, even now.

I take one final look into the night, as if uttering my own farewell, before I close my eyes and let go of the sides of bridge, letting gravity take control. I tumble through the air towards the water.

I feel like I am falling through the air for quite some time, my arms and legs flailing as if I am a bird desperately trying to fly. The wind whistles past me, it sounds like a cry in my ears, like a man crying out my name.

I hit the water.

All of a sudden my dead senses come back to life. The first thing I feel is pain as I fall into the river at an odd angle, then I feel the sudden, terrible cold of the water. It's such a shock my eyes jerk open, but I see nothing but endless blackness all around me. Instinctively my body tries to swim away from this darkness, trying find the surface of the water.

However when I realise what I'm doing I manage to calm myself down and hang limp in the water, allowing my body to be pushed down to the bottom of the river where I shall lie, finally in peace.

I feel myself growing weaker the longer I stay under the water, my lungs burn for air but after a while my senses die down again. I don't feel the cold, I don't feel the pain.

Black spots start appearing in front of my eyes, which surprises me, as I thought nothing could be any darker than the water I am in. It leaves me disorientated so I close my eyes, knowing that the end is coming, and yet still I am not scared, it seems welcoming in a way.

No more sorrow, no more hatred, no more regrets, no more nightmares. No more pain.

This is it.


	13. The Voice

The Voice

Suddenly, something grabs my arm. The sudden movement awakens me and I find my body trying to fight against it, while my exhausted, confused mind tries to figure out what it is. Have I got caught in the weeds at the bottom of the river? Have I even reached the bottom yet? I can't even tell which way is up. Was it some sort of fish thinking that I was a midnight feast?

Then the thing that's holding onto me begins to drag me, pull me, through the darkness. I begin to panic and try to struggle from it, but I am too weak to fight. I realise the thing holding onto my arm feels a lot like a hand, but it's difficult to tell, my whole body is so numb.

I feel something rough beneath me - my legs are being dragged along the ground, the river has become shallow, I'm being pulled towards the surface. It doesn't seem so dark any more, but my head is swimming and the black spots are returning, I'm about to pass out.

With a sudden jolt I am pulled out of the icy waters and onto the bank of the river. I scramble on the damp grass and gasp for air. The black spots disappear and I gaze into the dim park surrounding me, I find myself shaking and at first think I'm in shock but then the cold hits me. I thought the river was freezing but this is even worse. The cold is so painful I feel like my veins are turning into ice. My lungs are burning again from the freezing air, I feel like I'm chocking. I'm so weak I can't stand.

Then there's a voice, a horribly familiar voice, even though I hadn't heard it in twelve weeks:

"John?"

The voice makes my whole body shake even more, and I suddenly have a desperation to escape the voice, I begin to try crawling away from the bank.

"John, can you hear me?"

Oh yes I can hear you, that's the entire problem. Because this cannot be the afterlife, it simply cannot, there is far too much pain and cold for this to be the afterlife. I come to the conclusion that the current of the river pushed me out onto the bank, which means I am still alive and everything else I have hallucinated because of the shock and the cold. That man I can hear is dead. I can't see him because he is behind me, but I know I have to get away from him.

I just about manage to stumble up onto my feet, but as soon as I do the world starts spinning and the black spots return. I am still shaking uncontrollably and can barely keep standing yet alone stumble away, but I try best anyway.

Something is placed over my shoulders and pulls me back a little, it's a coat, _his _coat. I shrug it off immediately but the voice starts talking to me again, saying my name over and over in that horribly worried tone. I push him back but he persists.

"Leave me alone!" I manage to cry out fiercely, but just then my body fails me and I fall to the ground, shaking and gasping for air yet the world doesn't stop spinning. The voice continues to call my name but is becoming slowly distant. I feel like I'm falling.

And before I can do anything else, I tumble into darkness once more.

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><p><em>Sorry about the short chapter, but at least I didn't keep you all waiting too long!<em>

_Reviews much appreciated :)_


	14. Confessions Part 1

_Sorry for the delayed update, I've been really busy and this turned out to be a huge chapter to write, so much so that I've decided to split it in half (or attempt to). I must admit I'm not too keen on this one, it was quite tricky to write._

_I've just updated this again after editing it a little, I hope it's OK! No reviews for it so far, reviews = quicker update for Part 2 :)_

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><p><span>Confessions Part 1<span>

I had a strange and rather horrible dream last night. I dreamt that I had thrown myself off a bridge in Regent's Park and then a dead man came to save me. It seemed so real but I wake up to find myself at home, in bed, no longer feeling the terrible cold that was in my dreams, although my whole body was aching for no apparent reason. I pull the covers off to see that my clothes are dry, but I'm sure they weren't the ones I was wearing last night.

My head is punding and starts to swim as I slowly sit up, and I'm continuously having flash backs of my weird dream, the feeling of falling and entering the terrible black river. The freezing waters and my burning lungs seem all too real to me. Then I look up and spot a pile of clothes sitting on the radiator. I feel a horrible certainty that those were the clothes I was wearing last night.

I stood up and made my way cautiously over to them, placing a hand upon them. They're still damp. But Why? Why would my clothes be wet? Unless something actually did happen...I'm not liking where this is going.

There is a sudden clatter outside my room, it sounds like it's coming from the kitchen. For some reason I don't think it's Mrs Hudson, but I have no idea who else it might be. There is no one else living here now.

I slowly make my way over to the kitchen, as if I'm terrified of what I might find. I am right to be.

A tall man with short, tight black curls is standing in the kitchen, trying to work the toaster. His back is to me but I know who he is, or who this man is pretending to be, because it can't really be him, it's not possible...

"I should have taken you to the hospital," he says, somehow aware that I was standing behind him. "But I know you wouldn't have liked that."

The man turns around, and I am staring into eyes I have not seen for twelve weeks, and the last time I saw them they were dead, unseeing eyes.

My legs start shaking and I quickly have to sit down at the kitchen table just in case I collapse.

"Who are you?" I hate the way my voice trembles as I speak, as if I'm a coward, but this can't be happening. Perhaps my therapist diagnosed me wrong, I'm not depressed, I'm schizophrenic, and now I've started hallucinating.

The man immediately stepped forward when I said this, with a look of concern on his face. "Don't you remember who I am John?" He asked.

"Yes I remember who you are Sherlock!" I shout suddenly, and with a sudden burst of energy I find myself on my feet again, fists pounding the table. "You're _dead_! I looked down into your face and you were dead, so you can't possibly be back, so I don't know who you are. You're clearly someone in a disguise to try and prise information about Sherlock from me, or some sort of hallucination because I've gone completely mad!"

There was a pause, the dead man just stared at me with his grey, sympathetic eyes.

"I'm real John." He said in a horribly soft voice. "I'm not a hallucination or a disguise. I'm real and you know it. I never even died, and I'm so, so sorry I had to put you through this."

I had to sit down again at that. This was far too much to take in on a good day. My dead best friend was currently standing in the kitchen claiming that he was alive, and all he could really say is 'sorry'.

I glare up at Sherlock. "I only just started believing you were dead you know. I kept on thinking you were still alive, I kept on expecting to see you around the house, but of course you were never there. And when I finally accept you're not coming back, here you are."

"I'm so sorry John, I can't image what I've put you through..." Sherlock began.

"No you can't," I snap, if I thought about how I would react if the detective came back, I didn't expect to be so angry. "The past twelve weeks have been hell, I wasn't even sure if I could survive any more of it, and then out of the blue you come back as if nothing had ever happened."

"Please John," Sherlock said, I've never heard him sound so regretful or sorrowful or pleading, perhaps I am dead and we are actually having this argument in the afterlife. "You have to understand that I did this for your own good."

My own good? Did he not hear what I just said? Hell is not meant to be for anyone's good, I could have used a friend these past twelve weeks but he thouht it would be better if he left me in mourning. I let out a frustrated groan and put my head on the table, trying to make sense of everything that was happening. I was expecting to wake up any moment but this was feeling so real, and Sherlock was a genius, I'm pretty sure he would be able to fake his own death if he had to.

"John, are you all right?" I could hear his worried voice just above me.

"I'm fine." I growled. "Just...how _are_ you still alive? Why are you not dead? I stared into your dead eyes, I saw you fall to the ground so you tell me _how _you're still alive."

"Because I wasn't the one on the ground." Sherlock explains.

"I was hoping for a little more than that," I snap.

"It's not the fall that kills you," Sherlock explained, sounding like he was about to go on one of his highly intelligent speeches about how something works or how he solved a case. Some things don't change much. "But hitting the ground, and I knew that Moriarty wanted me dead, that he probably wanted me to end my own life, so I had to find a way to fake my own death, to make sure I wasn't the one on the ground."

Well that didn't really make any sense, and didn't explain how, in my mind's eye, I was staring down at the dead body of Sherlock and for real have him standing right in front of me. I just want to go to bed and sleep for age, and then wake up and pretend the last three months didn't happen, but I made the decision to hear Sherlock out. "What do you mean, you knew Moriarty was going to kill you?"

Sherlock shrugged, as if it was obvious. "He wanted something from me, and it didn't take me long to realise he wanted my life, or someone else's life, or I was probably going to be killed fighting against him, because I was his biggest challenge. At first I was in a panic, wondering how I was going to defeat him and yet stay alive, for a few days I thought that I really was going to die. Even Molly noticed there was something wrong."

Sherlock had panicked? I had never known him to do that, and I felt a wave of guilt thinking that Molly could tell that there was something wrong with him, yet I was ignorant. Perhaps that's why she looked so uncomfortable at the funeral, she knew it wasn't his body in that coffin...I said nothing though, and let Sherlock continue.

"I was at a loss of what to do until Molly offered her help, and I realised I could find a way to successfully fake my death. I decided the best way to do it would be a fall from a great height, nothing close up, no weapons involved, I felt it would be an easy way to pretend to die. A plan started to form in my mind when the kidnapped girl took one look at me in the police station and started screaming. Clearly she was screaming because she thought I was the kidnapper, and seeming as the kidnapped children were probably Moriarty's doing to try and get everyone to turn against me, I knew he must have someone who looked very similar to me, and possibly wearing a mask. If I found this mask it would help me fake my death, make people believe that I was dead if they saw my body."

I involuntary shivered at this. Sherlock hesitated when he noticed and looked at me closely. I ignored his concerned gaze (I wasn't used to the consulting detective looking so worried and it unnerved me) and just waited for him to carry on.

"Well, to cut a long story short, it only took me a couple of hours to work out who might have made the mask and where it might be from the knowledge I had from the case and Moriarty. It was an impressive make, almost as if I was looking in the mirror. After that I went to Molly and explained my plan - if we had a dead body I would be able to disguise it with this mask and my clothes, and I might just be able to trick Moriarty and his people into thinking that I was dead. The good thing about Molly's place of work was that she had plenty of dead bodies at her disposal, and after meeting Irene Adler I had a pretty good idea of how to fake a good death. We worked together to find a body that would be of a very similar shape and size to me, and once again we found one quickly, a very good match, the man even had the same eyes as me. It wouldn't surprise me if it was the same man who pretended to be me when he kidnapped the children, people probably don't stay alive very long under Moriarty's employment..."

I ran my hands through my hair, trying to think everything through. There were so many questions running across my mind I didn't know what to say or how to react to all of this, I was just trying to be patient and hearing Sherlock out before I have a breakdown. It felt just as surreal as when I saw Sherlock's coffin being lowered into the ground. But now it turns out that didn't really happen after all, and as far as I can tell, this is. Sherlock _is_ alive. I take the opportunity to pick a particular question that was bothering when Sherlock took a short pause.

"But I saw you jump, I saw you fall, if that wasn't your body on the ground, who was it falling through the air?"

Sherlock almost looked excited at this point, I suppose from his point of view it was just another case, another game to solve and play. "But you _didn't_ see me fall. Not really. Your brain just filled in the gaps that were missing."

It was either lack of food that was making my head spin, or getting too confused over what Sherlock was saying. I'm not sure how long I had been asleep for but it wasn't long enough, I felt absolutely exhausted and wanted nothing else but to sleep for an age. I groaned and put my head on the table again, which made Sherlock pause.

"Are you sure you're all right John? I think it's too early for this conversation, perhaps another day..."

"No." I snap suddenly, the anger suddenly clear in my voice. "I need these answers, I _deserve_ these answers, I'm just tired. Tell me now and keep things simple."


	15. Confessions Part 2

_Sorry for those who had like 3 update alerts for the last chapter, I tried to edit it after I had updated but fanfiction was messing up, so sorry if that annoyed you._

_Anyway, here is Confessions Part 2! _

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><p><span>Confessions Part 2<span>

Sherlock didn't looked pleased about my response of denying rest and instead demanding answers, but he carried on anyway.

"It wasn't just Molly who helped my fake my death, I had the whole of homeless network working with me as well. Turns out they don't like the idea of me dying, so offered their services. I got them to place an old truck just where I planned to jump, after deciding right next to a hospital would be the best place to fake a suicide just in case anything went wrong. I didn't die because I didn't land on the concrete, instead the blow was softened by bags filled with clothes that I landed on in the truck, and where Molly was also hiding, trying to keep out of sight. As soon as I landed she tipped out the dead fake version of me onto the concrete and the truck drove off."

"I still don't understand how I didn't see any of that." I admitted, my head was still spinning.

Sherlock gave a small, knowledgeable smile. "Because you were standing just in the right position so the truck blocked your view, and I had the homeless network make sure you were distracted so you didn't suspect anything was wrong." He suddenly looked a little guilty. "I told them it was a desperate situation so they should try anything, but I didn't really mean for you to be run over by a bike, that may have been a bit much..."

So everything that I had seen and believed was wrong. Like everything that Sherlock does it was all planned out and managed to deceive those with a 'simple mind', even being hit by the bike. I had spent all this time thinking my best friend was dead, but really he was alive and well and hiding somewhere. I glowered at him, feeling more anger building up in my exhausted veins. If I wasn't so tired I might have already knocked his teeth out.

"You could have come back," I mumbled, "why did you not tell me you were still alive? Did you not think about what I was going through believing that you were dead?"

I've never seen Sherlock look so guilty until today. The emotion that flickered over his face was close to sadness.

"I couldn't John," he murmured, "it was for your own good, I couldn't come back."

That was no excuse. He could have a least given me a hint if he couldn't come back to Baker Street, just a small sign that he was OK would have just made my life seem a little bit easier for the past twelve weeks. But instead he had left me in the pitch darkness that I had fallen into. I don't think I could ever forgive Sherlock Holmes for that, but I still had questions to ask.

"So where have you been all this time?" I demanded, "while you were pretending no longer to exist, what have you been doing?"

"I've been staying with Molly." Sherlock admitted. "She let me live in her house, and I've been watching you ever since. Don't let yourself think that I just forgot about you for the past twelve weeks. I didn't follow you around all the time, but I wanted to keep an eye on you to make sure you were all right."

So that was why I was seeing a tall, dark figure every now and then, I knew it was him, but of course at the time that seemed impossible. It was some relief that I wasn't going insane, if Sherlock really was standing in front of me, anyway.

"You even went to your own funeral?"

Sherlock nodded, "yes, that was a little strange. I was surprised that was one of the few times I managed to see you, you never seemed to leave Baker Street. After a while I was beginning to get worried so I asked Molly to check up on you. I was devastated when she told me you were in a really bad way so I started to keep a closer eye on you, I didn't realise how bad things had taken a turn for you. And then I saw you leaving Baker Street in the middle of the night and followed you to the park..."

He stopped then, because we both knew what was going to happen next. Despite my memory still being hazy about last night (if it was last night, I had no idea how long it has been since I jumped off the bridge) there was no doubt that it wasn't a dream anymore. It had actually happened, and I still remembered a cry of my name that I thought was the wind, an arm grabbing me under the water and Sherlock's terrified voice.

"And you followed me into the river?" I prompted.

Sherlock seemed surprised at this question. "Of course I did, I couldn't let you drown."

I could picture it now, Sherlock must have been standing in the darkness not far from the bridge, watching, wondering what I was doing, then he saw me jump. I knew what he must have been thinking, because I had been in that position before, complete disbelief and horror at the sight of his friend falling. As soon as I fell into the water he must have run forward, thrown off his coat (I remember feeling something dry attempted to be draped over my shoulders) and dived into the water after me. He could have caught hypothermia swimming into the freezing water, Sherlock would have known that, but still he did it. I suppose that shows how many times I may argue against it, he did care about me.

I must have fallen unconscious pretty quickly after I had been pulled from the river, Sherlock must have taken me all the way back to Baker Street through the dark, alone. There was just one more thing I considered as I looked down at what I was wearing.

"Sherlock, how did I get into these clothes?"

"Oh don't look so embarrassed John!" Sherlock said with a wave of his hand. "You couldn't stay in those wet clothes. It was fine, Mrs Hudson helped."

"Mrs Hudson?" I repeated, but then I paused, forgetting my embarrassment. "How has she reacted to all of this?"

Sherlock frowned for a moment. "Well she slapped me, and then there was a lot of tears and hugging. It was a little strange."

No I could understand exactly why she did that.

"So...you're not a fraud?" I asked slowly, "and you can't lie to me now Sherlock. You have to tell me the truth now you've come back, you faked your own death, what else is fake about you?" The number of kitchen utensils I was tempted to throw at his head now depended on his answer.

But Sherlock replied with the response I knew he would. "I'm not a fraud John. Moriarty was real and wanted to make me seem like a cheat. I had to tell you I wasn't who I really was to stop you thinking I was still alive and coming after me. I needed to make everyone believe I was a liar..."

We both suddenly fell into a long silence. Sherlock still stood in front of me on the other end of the kitchen table, with wide, worried eyes, I thought I'd never see him look so...frightened. But I didn't feel any sympathy towards him, I just sat there and glared at him. He had been hiding away and lying to me all this time, he made me doubt who he really was and if he was still here I might not have been driven to the edge. Why should he deserve my sympathy?

"John I can understand if you don't want me to stay here," Sherlock began. No matter what happens it's still unnerving when it seems like he can read your mind. "If you want me to go after all I put you through..."

"Sorry no, but you can't stay here." I told him bluntly. I couldn't have a dead man walking around in my house. This was all too much to bear. I didn't want to throw Sherlock Holmes out of my life forever when I had spent weeks thinking he was still going to come through the door, but now he was here I felt like I was drowning in confusion. You have to walk before you run, and right now I couldn't even get standing on two feet. Perhaps when I decided to forgive him he could come back, but that wasn't going to be for a long time, so he couldn't stay here. "I don't think I can even look at you right now, let alone have you living here." I admitted aloud.

But Sherlock's eyes turned to stone. "Sorry John, but I'm not leaving you, not in the state you're in. I'm going to be stay here until I fix what I've broken, and then you can decide whether to chuck me out of Baker Street or not. In the meantime, I'm going to make you some breakfast."

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><p><em>Well those were my thoughts of what might have happened to Sherlock at the end of Reichenbach, obviously I have no idea how he actually survived etc, I'm really looking forward to having it all revealed at the beginning of the next series! What do you think happened? :) Apparently it's going to be something really obvious so we'll all be kicking ourselves! Lol<em>

_Please review! :D_


	16. Twenty Four Hours

_I didn't know what to call this chapter, so if anyone else has some better ideas that would be great :)_

_Hope you like this one anyway, only one review for the last chapter! :(_

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><p><span>Twenty-Four Hours<span>

The next twenty-four hours were some of the strangest of my life. Having your best friend dying was weird enough, but turns out having him suddenly reappearing in your life again is even worse. I try to think about all the films and TV shows I've seen in which a friend comes back from the dead, what did those people do when they found out the truth? I'm pretty sure my reaction wasn't showed in any of them. Perhaps it would be a bit much of an exaggeration to say that for a few hours I had gone insane, but it certainly felt like it at the time.

The affects of the past twelve weeks and my attempted suicide (there was no point trying to avoid it or deny it, I know what I was trying to do when I stood on that bridge) had caught up with me, so I thankfully spent most of those twenty-four hours asleep. The trouble was staying asleep for more than a few hours was difficult, and I kept on having strange dreams about Sherlock lying dead on the ground and then suddenly jumping up on his feet, blood still running down his face. What was worse was when I would wake up and get up, completely forgetting what had happened and that anyone had come back from the dead, to find Sherlock Holmes sitting in the living room watching daytime television and asking how I was.

My emotions varied from rage, confusion and sorrow, I didn't know which way to turn. I tried to keep myself to myself and think things through, set things straight in my crazed mind, but Sherlock kept on appearing, trying to talk to me, trying to get me to eat. I tried to be nice to him, because I knew he was trying to help me and I tried to just ignore him because clearly I wasn't OK and I hadn't been hungry for twelve weeks. But after a few too many nagging appearances I snapped. I started yelling at Sherlock, telling him that he should be rotting in the ground and that there's nothing wrong with me, he just needs to leave me alone, why isn't he getting out of my head? Are you even real? Look at what you've done to me, I hate you.

Sherlock didn't look angry when I shouted these words at him, he didn't look sad either, he just stood there calmly until I had finished, and then left without another word. I suppose he thinks he deserves every bad word I say against him, as I suppose I may have to agree with him on that one. I still believe that his death was the trigger for everything that had happened next, those events might have still happened – my argument with Kitty Riley, Harry – but in slightly different ways, and probably wouldn't have had as much effect. And it turns out after all I've been through, he wasn't even dead. If that's not rubbing salt into a wound I don't know what is.

After that explosion of rage however I did start to calm down a little bit. Sherlock actually got me to eat something, and I had to admit that after swallowing down a rather blackened piece of toast (the man really didn't know how to work a toaster) I did feel a bit better. Over those twenty-four hours Sherlock was always very calm, trying not to show any emotion.

Mrs Hudson came round a few hours later to make a cup of tea, she sat with me in the living and talked until I was dizzy. I hadn't heard her so happy a long time, I suppose I hadn't considered what might have been going through her head after she discovered about Sherlock's 'suicide'. I only realised when I sat with her in my armchair, a blanket over my shoulders (I had been feeling the cold recently and Sherlock insisted, even though I knew he would hate wearing one himself) how much of a son Sherlock was to Mrs Hudson. She must have missed him deeply, and yet she couldn't talk to anyone about it. She felt comfortable talking about him now though, and ended up moaning about him for one reason or another, but I knew it was the way in which a mother would moan about their teenage son.

"Of course I knew he wasn't a liar, that's not our Sherlock to be someone like that." She commented, and I had a feeling it wasn't the first time she had said this, but after who knows how long of listening to her chatter it was hard to tell.

I was going to point out to Mrs Hudson that the whole fraud rumour showed how little we knew about Sherlock Holmes, even now he's back I'm not sure how well I know him, or if I can trust him. However I said and just nodded in agreement, staring off into the distance, it would be unfair to upset her.

"You should have said that you weren't feeling well John," Mrs Hudson said after a short and rare pause, looking at me closely. "I didn't realise how ill you've been recently until Sherlock told me."

Although Sherlock probably hadn't told her that it wasn't a physical sickness that was plaguing me. "You don't need to worry about me," I murmured.

Mrs Hudson didn't seem convinced, but just then she decided it was time to make another cup of tea.

It wasn't long since Mrs Hudson left that I went to bed, and this time I managed to sleep soundly and when I woke up the mysterious bout of sanity had disappeared. I must have slept for about eight hours and I thought I hadn't woken up at all, but afterwards Sherlock told me there was one point when I got up and stood just in the doorway of the living room, where he was watching yet more television (it seemed to be the only thing he could do around the house at the moment).

He told me he turned round and spotted me standing in there, looking like a ghost, with a pale dace and dark rings around my eyes. Apparently I just stood there and stared at him.

"Are you all right John?" He had asked.

I nodded, "Still alive Sherlock?"

"Yes," he replied quite casually.

I nodded again, and then apparently I went straight back to bed. And now I wake up feeling perfectly sane and certain with the knowledge that Sherlock is actually alive. It's like everything's clicked into place and I understand the events that happened to both me and Sherlock over the past twelve weeks. The long rest made me feel a little more relaxed as well and no longer exhausted. I had recovered from my midnight swim and when I stood up for once my head doesn't spin, I even feel like having a little something to eat. It doesn't sound like much but for me this was a massive improvement.

I got dressed before heading into the kitchen, where Sherlock was once again attempting to make breakfast. Any other time I would have laughed at his poor attempts to cook even the most basic of foods, (today it looks like he's attempting a traditional English breakfast) but I'm not able to laugh just yet.

He turned to the bin, muttering something about useless kitchen appliances and about to throw something very burnt-looking away, when he froze, staring at something in the bin. I watch him as he bends down and picks it up.

"John, what's this?" He demanded, and my heart sank like a stone when I saw he was holding up my box of anti-depressants. I had completely forgotten about them, and I didn't think that Sherlock would find them.

I feign stupidity all the same. "It's a box," I replied innocently.

Sherlock sighed. "Yes I know that, but what's _in _the box?"

"Oh I don't know, a world of mysteries!" I don't care if this man is trying to help me, I still hadn't forgiven him and had got into the habit of making the simplest of things as hard as possible. "Are you worried it's bigger on the inside?"

Sherlock glared at me. "In actual fact John I was being sarcastic. I know exactly what these are."

"Really?" He wasn't the only one who could use sarcasm.

But Sherlock's eyes now softened. "Why didn't you tell me you were meant to be on medication John?"

"Because I don't need medication. I'm not sick." I pointed out.

"Of course you need medication," usually Sherlock would have sounded angry, but his voice was filled with sympathy. I think I would prefer it if he was angry. "I knew you had depression but I didn't know you had been given medication-"

"But I'm not sick." I repeated, almost desperately. I already seem to have forgotten about my bout of insanity that occurred only a few hours ago.

Sherlock leaned forward across the table and stared straight into my eyes. It was horrible, as if he was trying to drive the truth into me, I looked down at the ground. I'm not sick and I don't need that medication, I don't care what he might say about the past twelve weeks, I don't care what I might have been like in the past twenty-four hours. I'm not sick.

"Why did you stop taking them?" He asked quietly.

I shrugged, "They weren't working," I admitted. "They just made things worse."

"But that's just a side effect, that often happens." Sherlock tried to explain to me. "Things get worse before they get better, so you're going to take them and keep on taking them this time."

"What makes you think I'm going to do that?" I demanded.

Sherlock stood up straight. "Because you've got a friend to help you through it this time. And trust me, I won't be running away again."

He took out one of the foils from the box and pushed out one of the white capsules and handed it out to me. "Trust me." He said.

Trust him? I didn't know if I could ever trust that man again, he always had so many secrets and surprises up his sleeve. He even pretended he was dead for three months, how can you trust someone you thought was your best friend when he faked his own death and didn't even tell you? But deep down I knew I was sick, you can't feel this empty inside and say it's normal.

The only thing I hate about him as much as I hate him lying to me, is when he's right.

I took the pill from his outstretched hand, and Sherlock managed a smile.


	17. Harry

_Sorry about the delayed update, I've been busy working on a new Sherlock one-shot called 'Let Me Live' about the day John got shot in the shoulder. I put it up the other day if any one of you are interested :)_

_I have to admit I don't like this chapter, but I promise the story line will start picking up again soon!_

_Please review :)_

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><p><span>Harry<span>

Sometimes you get that feeling when something's waiting for you on the other side of the door, but today I had no idea who might be standing in 221B Baker Street when I came back from a walk.

I had taken up walking a lot recently, mainly because, at first, Sherlock literally pushed me out the door, barking orders at me and making me feel like I was back in the army, saying that walking and fresh air would make me feel better and I should make the most of it before it starts raining. I feel like he always needs something to boss me around with, and now I'm willingly taking my medication, he's had to come up with something else.

It had been a few weeks since I had started taking the anti-depressants. The first week was horrible, just like it was the first time I started taking them, and once more I was tempted to throw them in the bin, but Sherlock knew what I wanted to do so did everything possible to try and stop me and, unfortunately some of his tactics did work so I found myself continuing to take them. They were a little easier to deal with this time, as like he said, I now had a friend to support me through it.

I always thought (no offence to him) that Sherlock would be useless at any sort of comfort and support, either he had a caring side to him that he was starting to show in these dark moments or he blamed himself for the reason why I had to take the horrible medication in the first place, but it turns out he's very good at providing support. There were a couple of times when I couldn't sleep and I just stayed up all night thinking about all the terrible things that were running round my head and the darkness pressing on my heart, and Sherlock was there, sitting next to me and looking like he wasn't tired or annoyed or bored. He didn't say anything if I had nothing to say, and he knew there would be no words to comfort me, but just him sitting there was a comfort and convinced me that perhaps he wasn't going to disappear again anytime soon.

The days, hours and minutes ticked past tortuously slowly during that week, but the whole time Sherlock was there, and after a while the food he was forcing me to eat and the medication was making me feel a little bit better. Sleeping was difficult, I kept on having terrible dreams about seeing different people falling from a tall building and smashing into concrete, but over time my nights were becoming dreamless, and when he felt it was safe enough for me to leave the house without me doing anything foolish, Sherlock sent me on walks and I found my mood improving even more. Unbelievably, I was actually getting better.

I feel like I am becoming a new person, but I'm not, I'm becoming the person I was before. I look in the mirror and don't see a tortured man, I see John Watson.

There were still problems that had not been sorted out yet though, but I just tried not to think about them. However little did I know Sherlock was trying to fix them himself, until I open the door of 221B Baker Street.

I can hear two voices as I make my way up the stairs, too muffled for me to work out who the owners are and what they might be talking about, but one of them definitely sounds like Sherlock. I have no idea who would be with him on the other side of the door though until I stepped into the living room and the two figures turned and stared at me.

Harry is standing there. She looks fairly different from when I had last seen her, but then again, it has been a while since I had seen her. She definitely looks thinner, even her dark brown hair looks thin as it passes just down her shoulders, she often looked like this when she tried to give up alcohol. Despite the drinking though she had always looked thin and younger than she actually was, and her large brown eyes I was looking into now spoke of the worry she was feeling, who knows what Sherlock has just been telling her.

"What's going on?" Though I dare not ask, there was a reason why me and Harry didn't see each other much, our last text conversation emphasising this, was this really the time to have her randomly appear in my house?

There was a short pause, while Harry thought desperately about what to say.

"I thought it would be nice to invite your sister over for tea," Sherlock cut in brightly. "And tell her absolutely everything."

"You're joking..." I began, staring at him, but Sherlock hardly ever jokes, and I have a feeling he's not going to start now.

I didn't think about how Harry would react to seeing me, but I would assume it would not be a nice one, especially after our last argument. If Sherlock had told her everything she would be devastated and angry to hear about the things I've been doing, or attempting to do.

I was shocked then when Harry suddenly rushed up to me and threw her arms around me. "Oh John, I'm so sorry," she said. "Why didn't you tell me you were in trouble?"

This sudden closeness with my sister is something I'm not used to, and I'm not quite sure why she apologised. I hope Sherlock hasn't suggested that anything that has happened was her fault.

She drew away after our hug, and gave a small, comforting smile when she saw my confused face. "Sherlock told me everything."

"Yes he just said," I mumbled, glancing over in Sherlock's direction, who tried his best to look like he was perfectly innocent in all things. I often began to wonder why I called this man my friend, despite the fact he probably meant well, he had no right to do this behind my back and tell Harry everything. I didn't want Harry to know what I've been through. "I'm not sure why he asked you to visit..." I began.

"He came round to find me, actually," Harry admitted, I didn't bother asking how Sherlock got my sister's address, after living with him for a couple of years there's really no need. "He explained everything and how...families should stick together sometimes, so I decided to come and see you."

"I'm fixing bridges," Sherlock put in brightly, as if he was quite pleased with his work. I have to admit it was nice to see my sister again, even though it was perhaps not at the best time. "Thought it would be helpful...useful, to have a bit of family back in your life. I don't know about you but I think it's time to put petty sibling squabbles aside and start something new." I decided not to point out the 'petty sibling squabbles' Sherlock had almost daily with his brother Mycroft, perhaps after this I would persuade him to try and get on with his brother, the thought of that made me smile a little.

Did Mycroft know that Sherlock was alive though? I tried not to think of that, I focused instead on the small smile still on my sister's face, and was grateful to see it there, most of the time when I picture her face she looks so angry. It would be nice to fill in the hole in my life that I could still feel, and know that my sister still cared about me without getting into any arguments. We persuaded her to stay for lunch.


	18. A Warning

_Slightly shorter chapter today, but like I promised before the story line is now starting to pick up again..._

_Please review! :)_

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><p><span>A Warning<span>

The trouble with living with Sherlock, is that nothing goes well for very long, nothing can stay normal, even the things you eventually accept as normal like having the kitchen workspace covered in scientific equipment for his weird experiments. Of course that's not the sort of person Sherlock is, he can never stay in one place for long, he's always moving and always changing, he always has something up his sleeve that you didn't know about.

But the real trouble with living with Sherlock is that you are never safe. He gets into your head, but he also gets into the heads of others. I thought my troubles were over, but I was about to be proved wrong.

Darkness had already settled over 221B Baker Street, and I thought I was alone. Not completely alone, as I could hear Mrs Hudson and Sherlock talking downstairs, it sounded like she was nagging him about something, reminding me of how much of a mother-son relationship they had created. I think that's nice, it's good to have a bit of family, as Sherlock's pointed out to me recently through Harry. I haven't got on with my sister so well for a long time, I guess she's just avoiding things to bicker about because she's worried about me (and I suppose she has a right to), but it is nice to be spending time with her and enjoying each other's company. I have Sherlock to thank for that, despite him still refusing to talk to his brother (he even has a slightly worried look on his face when I bring up the subject) and he has turned my life upside down in several ways, but still I should be grateful to him.

Even though he's going to turn my world upside down one more time.

I'm sitting in my room, taking advantage of the few quiet moments of an occupied Sherlock Holmes to spend some time with myself and read a book. I am no longer feeling suicidal so Sherlock feels safer leaving me on my own. It sounds strange, saying that I was suicidal. Before this all happened I wouldn't have believed I could have reached that point, and now, when the medication had only been working for a few weeks, it seems so strange thinking that there was one point I actually attempted to end my own life. I'm grateful that I cannot remember what it was like being in such a dark place, I don't want to remember.

A strange, scuffling noise draws me out of my book and my thoughts. It sounded like it came from the living room, but I knew it couldn't be Sherlock, I could hear his muffled voice downstairs with Mrs Hudson along with it. There's no one else in the house. Perhaps a cat's somehow got into the house (I remember leaving the living room window being left open a crack) and is now causing havoc. I decide to go and investigate just in case a feline creature had ended up in 221B Baker Street and Sherlock finds out.

But a cat hadn't got into the house, the living room was empty, as far as I could tell. Through the dim I could just about see the furniture and I couldn't hear anything scuffling around any more. Perhaps it's just my imagination.

I turn the light on.

My mouth falls open.

Someone had got into the house, they had climbed in through the window, not even bothering to close it again when they had left and it stood wide open, but that's not why a shiver ran up my spine.

The person who broke in hadn't stolen anything, I know they haven't, they've just left a message. A message written across the wall in a symbol that no one else would have understood other than me and Sherlock. The bright yellow paint that's screaming in my face, screaming a warning of my imminent death, that I will become a dead man.

There's only one thing you can say in this situation:

"SHERLOCK!"


	19. Consequences

Consequences

I sat there and watched Sherlock run around like a little child, barely saying anything. The first thing he did when he heard my cry was run up the stairs, take one look at the message and then run straight down again to shout questions at a rather startled Mrs Hudson. After that he came back up again and did nothing but pace, every now and then when he had a sudden idea he would lean out the still open window and gaze around, as if the messenger was still there. This was something I often saw Sherlock do when he was on a case, but he always remained frustratingly mute on these occasions. I kept on trying to ask him questions about what was happening, what did he know, who was it, but he continued to ignore me.

I tried to keep calm, but the writing on the wall had given me a shock and it was still glaring at me, I knew the symbols were telling me that I was going to become a dead man, right when I thought everything was over.

I remember seeing this writing before, quite clearly, even though I'm sure it must have been a long time ago. At first not even Sherlock knew what it meant, but it struck fear into the heart of whoever saw the message, and then whoever the message was meant for died pretty quickly afterwards. We got too close looking for those responsible, the Chinese gang Black Lotus, and Sherlock came home one day to find out a message had been left to tell him I was soon to be a dead man. Fortunately we had got away, but it was close, and now they've come back.

The trouble is, I've changed my mind; I've decided that I don't want to die anymore. I may have tried to take my own life a few weeks ago but now I prefer living, I don't want to go. Just as I start feeling like I was living my life and becoming me again, someone wants to take my life from me, or Sherlock's, or both of us.

I really don't want to die, and Sherlock _still _isn't answering any of my questions!

In the end, I came to the end of my tether.

"Stop it Sherlock!" I suddenly snap at him, just as the consulting detective was about to start another round of pacing, muttering to himself like a madman. He finally seemed to notice I was there, and stopped moving. "You need to tell me what's going on," I said to him, sounding breathless as if I had just run a mile. "You have to tell me why that writing has appeared on the wall, you have to tell me why someone has done this instead of running round in circles saying nothing. You have to tell me how we can get out of this, because I don't want to die anymore. I've changed my mind." My voice started to crack and I had started to shake, I tried to take deep breaths.

"There's no need to panic John," Sherlock said surprisingly calmly.

Unfortunately, this did not calm me down, but rather enrage me further. "I'm not panicking! You're the one who's running around like a dog chasing it's tale and leaving me in the dark!"

There was a slight pause, where Sherlock looked a little guilty and was trying to think of what to say. But I had started working things out for myself.

"This is because of you, isn't it Sherlock?" I said, pointing at the writing on the wall. "Something you've done that's made these people come back. What have you done?"

Sherlock sighed, but to my relief sat down, he couldn't look at my face though. "You've never really thought about why I might have pretended to take my life and not tell you the truth, have you?" He muttered.

"You never told me," I pointed out.

"But you didn't _think_ about it," Sherlock repeated bitterly, and he was right, I had never really taken time to consider why he might have done such things in the first place. By the look on his face, this was actually quite difficult for Sherlock. "Moriarty told me…if I didn't kill myself, then he would kill my friends. He had assassins planted everywhere, and if I didn't die then they would kill you, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. I didn't have much of a choice, I couldn't let any of you die."

I stared at Sherlock. Why hadn't he told me any of this before? If I had known that he had faked his death to save others, perhaps I would have forgiven him. I would have done the same thing if I was in that situation. No wonder he hadn't made contact with anyone else, because they were in danger if he did, he only came back because I would be dead otherwise. Now the consequences of this have come back to bite us.

Sherlock suddenly jumped back up and started pacing again. "Now one of them must have found out that I'm still alive and living here, so they've come to finish the job. But it's going to be fine-"

"I'm still not sure how it's going to be fine." I pointed out. I had a feeling Moriarty's people were not ones to easily give up and walk away.

"Because there's only one of them." Sherlock explained almost brightly.

"Who's _them_?" I asked.

"Moriarty told me there were three assassins, one each for the victims who would fire simultaneously if I did not die, but this time there has only been one assassin, the one who's left a warning for us. Mrs Hudson claims she hasn't encountered any trouble or mysterious graffiti, and I think it would be on the news if someone had attempted to assassinate a Scotland Yard detective. Of course it's been months since Moriarty died and I faked my death, so the assassins would have assumed their job was done, gone home, and the criminal organisations who depended on their consulting criminal may well have weakened and broken down since then, so it is understandable that there are hardly any assassins left. Unfortunately there is one person loyal enough to finish off Moriarty's dirty work, and they've found out I'm still alive. When they're done with us they'll move onto Mrs Hudson and Lestrade, unless we stop them first."

I tried to think about how Moriarty's men could have possibly found out that Sherlock was still alive, was there someone still loyal enough to actually spend their time watching the house? If so, they would have spotted him around the house, possibly talking to Mrs Hudson, watching the television, pushing me out the door to go for a walk. Maybe he was seen when he went to see Harry, so now they know he's alive and want to finish the job. I really hope none of this is my fault, I've caused enough trouble, he only came back to save me, and now our lives are in danger once again.

Sherlock managed to calm down enough to sit down during this short silence where I considered my thoughts. "They want to play games with us John," he said quietly. The panic must be showing on my face still, even though I had relaxed a little more, as he was speaking to me very calmly again. "That's why they broke into the house and left the message on the wall. They had no need to, they could have taken the opportunity to attack us when they broke into the house, as we had no idea we were in any danger, but instead they left us a warning. The Black Lotus must have changed their code by now, but the assassin has used them again because we'll know what it means. This person wants to get us scared before they cut us down, he's playing the games that his boss used to love."

"When will they attack again?" I asked slowly, trying to distance myself from the situation, trying to think rationally and logically.

Sherlock shrugged, "it shouldn't be too long, after seeing the message we could try to make a run for it, so the assassin must strike quickly before we can. It will probably be tonight, or tomorrow night, when it's quiet and dark to catch us unawares and limit the number of witnesses."

I wish I hadn't asked. This did not help the situation. "How are we going to stop this person then, with such little time?" If this assassin was from the Black Lotus, we had seen those people at work, they were very clever and very dangerous, we know they would stop at nothing. What could we do to defeat them? We couldn't even run, they would find us in the end.

A sly smile spread over Sherlock's face, and his eyes gave a mischievous glitter, one he always had when he got an idea. "We will have to defeat them by playing our own game."

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><p><em>I found this chapter a little tricky, but I hope it was all right! :)<em>

_Please review!_


	20. Hide and Seek

_While I appreciate all the views, alerts and favourites I've had for this story so far, reviews for it have been a bit low again. In fact they've often been fairly low for this story, which is a bit annoying since I really like reviews and am trying hard writing with this story as I know sometimes chapters aren't very eventful, but I do my best to keep it interesting. I'm sure those of you who have written stories on here find it disappointing when you don't get much feedback on something you've worked hard on, and I've found it does put a downer on your motivation._

_So I just want to say it hardly takes 2 minutes to review something, and I'm really busy with homework, revision and other writing projects, so if I can keep on finding time to write chapters for this story, then surely a few more of you can find time to give just a little feedback, even just to say that you liked it or not :)_

_Anyway, that's my lecture over! Hope that didn't annoy you, but it was something on my mind so I thought I should say something, that's the best way to do things! I DO love each review I have received so far (special heads-up for Rainbowcapillaries for her regular, wonderful reviews and advice) and hopefully this chapter will give you something to review about, if I've done it right._

_I've just edited it a bit more, s__o enjoy! And don't forget to review..._

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><p><span>Hide and Seek<span>

Silence and darkness press in on me in all directions. I've never been in so much darkness or silence since I jumped into the river, that's what it's like, complete and utter nothingness surrounding me and engulfing me. But it's meant to be dark and quiet, that's the plan.

Despite seeing and hearing nothing, I can still feel a presence not far from me. Sherlock is crouched somewhere nearby, silent as the grave. That's a horrible metaphor to use, because soon he may well be in a grave, again, but for real this time. The silence and the darkness is what could save both our lives though, according to the mad mind of the consulting detectives.

We are the only people in the house, Sherlock sent Mrs Hudson away, convincing her to stay with some friends. She wasn't pleased about it, but I think she had a feeling something was wrong or something bad was going to happen, so she didn't argue for too long. Soon though, someone else will come and join us, probably through the window again. They may expect it to be dark, but not _this_ dark or quiet. That's the point, throw the assassin off his senses (Sherlock explained to me it is statistically more likely we shall be facing a male killer rather than a female one), without light or noise he shall be blind and deaf, defenceless in those aspects.

This gives us an advantage (though this is hard to believe, as I feel completely deaf and blind sitting here as well), because we know the area better than the assassin. We know where the sofa is, where the television sits, things to avoid while the assassin will be tripping over them, making plenty of noise so we can know where he is, but he won't know where we are hiding. We'll also have a good idea of which direction the different rooms are to run in, and where any extra weapons will be if we need them. We have a better chance of finding the light switch if things become desperate and we too need to see than the assassin.

God, I hope this works. I have to admit I'm not totally convinced, but I suppose knowledge is the best weapon we have right now. I feel like I'm back in Afghanistan doing a nightly patrol, you can feel the tension through the darkness as you wait and wonder if something might happen. This waiting game though, feels surprisingly different, but a lot of things have changed since I went to Afghanistan.

I'm sitting in the corner of the living room, trying to make as little noise as possible, which is surprisingly tricky, as I can hear my heart thumping madly in my ears and my deep, slow breaths. Despite being in life-threatening situations many times curtosey of either Sherlock or the Afghan war, the adrenaline still gets to you. Surely the neighbours can hear me, so the assassin will know exactly where I'm hiding when he comes. My legs went numb quite a while ago, which is not a good thing if I need to make a run for it. I'm not sure how long I have been sitting here in the darkness, as soon as Sherlock formed his plan we put it into action. Hours may have passed, and we will only know that we will be safe when the sun begins to rise behind the tightly shut curtains, and we will be safe for another day.

We cannot risk going to sleep, but there's no danger of that happening, I'm wide awake. In fact, I've not felt this alive for a long time, the whole event is almost exhilarating, just like old times.

But if something goes wrong, I could very easily end up dead.

More seconds tick past, or maybe it's been another hour. Time has joined in our deadly game of hide and seek, and I can't keep a track on it. I just try to keep patient and wait.

Suddenly, there's a creek. It's very quiet, but in the silence it's easy to hear. My eyes glance towards the direction of the window, knowing that's where it came from. There are a few, very small sounds of feet landing on the carpet and taking a few steps into the room.

The assassin is in the house.

I keep very still, but my heart beats even faster and a rush of fresh adrenaline fills my veins. I can't hear Sherlock moving, so I too remain motionless. I don't feel like I'm in too much danger, yet.

It's hard to tell, but I think the assassin is surprised to find himself surrounded by complete darkness and silence. He hardly moves from his position from the window, he's trying to get his bearings, which is tricky to do with nothing but darkness and silence.

I hear Sherlock shifting a little, preparing himself. The assassin must have heard it, as he takes another few steps forward into the middle of the room. I try to picture where he is standing, wondering how his current position could be used as an advantage for me.

I am not totally defencless against this man. I have my old pistol with me, which I had forgotten about for so long until Sherlock suggested it might be useful. It gives me a little extra comfort as it rests beside me on the floor. The trouble is, I cannot see my target, I can only picture him.

There is a quiet rustling of clothes as Sherlock stands up. He must be getting ready to attack, he said he would do this when the moment came if need be, and he probably knows the flat better than me and where the assassin is standing.

I'd hoped that the assassin would see how dark and quiet it is, assume we weren't at home, and leave. But he seems to know that we're playing a game with him, and wants to join in, so he's staying put. My heart starts thumping a little louder.

From the very small movements I can hear, the assassin is taking great interest in the direction of Sherlock. He has turned his head, he has taken a few more steps. I'm worried that the man's senses may well be better than ours, perhaps he can even see Sherlock. I decide to make a move.

I stand up as slowly and quietly as possible, gun now in hand, so I'm ready to defend myself if necessary, aware that my slight movements would distract the assassin.

This seems to work, the assassin stops moving in the direction of Sherlock. But he now knows roughly where the two of us are. I try to move away from my hiding position as quietly as possible, just in case the assassin decides to attack, then he will find I'm not there, that'll confuse him.

A voice in my head points out how this feels so stupid, playing this wild game of hide and seek in the dark, what made Sherlock think such a thing would work?

But it doesn't feel stupid when you think about what's at stake, and there was a time when I trusted Sherlock, I still should.

The assassin has fallen very still. I can picture three men standing motionless in a dark room, waiting for something to happen. The silence and the stillness has made me lose track of things, I can't remember where I thought the assassin was, or where Sherlock had moved to. I start to feel a little helpless, and I hate feeling helpless, but I can safely assume that the assassin is not close enough to me to cause any damage, and I would assume he's not foolish enough to start firing in the dark. Still, I keep my gun close at my side.

Suddenly something makes a swift movement right in front of me. I hear the sound of a knife being pulled from a sheath. It's the assassin, and he's definitely too close to comfort.

I don't know whether I imagined it or actually saw it through the darkness, but there was a flash of a blade as it whizzed through the air towards my stomach. I leap backwards just in time and the knife cuts through empty air.

I don't care how much noise I make now, I just know I need to get away from the assassin, so my mind and body swings into action and I make a run for it. I dash across to the other side of the room, even running over the sofa to do so. I can hear the assassin close behind me, chasing me, the unseeing obstacles blocks his way a little but this man is determined. I hear something on the other side of the room - Sherlock has joined in the chase, going after the assassin before he can catch me.

I manage to make it over the other side of the room to the doorway of the kitchen (we had left all the doors swinging open so we could get through quickly if we needed), but I can't run and try to hide again, because my the sound of it the two other men have collided with each other and are now having a furious fight in the dark. The two had thumped into each other as the assassin had run towards me and it now sounded like they were having some sort of wrestle. I desperately want to know what's going on and where exactly they are, but I can't turn a light on as the assassin would immediately be able to see his target.

I'm starting to feel hopeless again, which makes me angry. I will not let this assassin get to me. I try to think clearly.

Then I remember the knife the assassin had been holding in his hand, and I can't stand and listen any longer. It won't be long until that knife finds its way into his chest or throat...Yet still my gun is frustratingly useless, as I also can't find my target and I wouldn't dare risk hitting Sherlock. It is a bit like being in the army again, as quick decisions are everything. In the end, I make a quick decision and rush forward to help...

And run straight into Sherlock and the assassin. They had been fighting a lot closer than I thought - right by the stairs in actual fact - and when I hurtle into them one of them is knocked completely off balance. He gives a cry of surprise and then there are several loud and horrible thuds as he tumbles down the stairs.

Then there's silence.

Panic starts to rise inside me as I can't see who's at the bottom of the stairs. It could be Sherlock.

Oh God, I might have just killed Sherlock!

I fumble in the darkness for a light switch, finally finding one and clicking it on.

The sudden, bright light burns my eyes, but I try to look past it and instead at the body. Once my eyes get used to the light I breathe a sigh of relief.

It's the assassin. His face is half covered by black material to hide his features and the rest of him is dressed in black too so I can't recognise him, but I probably wouldn't anyway. His body is sprawled at an odd angle as he lies motionless at the bottom of the stairs.

I don't like the way his neck looks horribly out of place. I'm pretty sure he's dead.

A hand suddenly lands on my shoulder, making me jump. I look up to see the worried eyes of Sherlock.

"Stay there John," he says hurriedly, "everything's going to be fine. Sit down and stay still."

"What?" I glance up at him, confused, as he runs over to the kitchen. Of course everything's going to be fine, we caught the assassin, we stopped him and we managed to survive, we've saved Mrs Hudson and Lestrade from a terrible fate. Why is Sherlock acting so worried and running around for? It's over.

But then I look down at myself, and realise why Sherlock was so worried.

The assassin didn't miss with his knife, either that or when I ran into the pair of them I ran into the knife as well. There is a thick line of red liquid seeping through my white shirt, just across my stomach.

I just manage to mutter an "oh" before the shock makes me lose balance and I fall to the floor with a thud.

I can hear Sherlock shouting to me from the kitchen, trying to comfort me and asking me questions, but my brain can't quite work out what he's saying. Like adrenaline, wounds are also something that still gets to you, no matter what the situation, and I've never been stabbed in the stomach before. I'm so glad I don't feel any pain.

I feel like I'm at the bank of the river again, Sherlock's still trying to get my attention but I couldn't care less. There's no cold this time, but my mind has started to grow dim, I feel foggy and stupid as I watch the line of blood get thicker and redder as the seconds tick by.

Panic rises up in me as I remember that this is not a good thing, but then it strangely disappears again before I can act against it. My eyelids start to droop.

My mind keeps on flipping back to the moment on the river bank while Sherlock keeps on shouting at me, but I don't have the energy to reply.

My feet slip on the muddy bank of the river at the same time as I suddenly slip into darkness.


	21. Fighting Ninjas

_Here's the next chapter, hope I didn't keep you guys waiting too long! I've been busy and this chapter was longer than I expected it to be. Hope you like it anyway :)_

_Oh and someone mentioned to me that my comment on low reviews is just me asking for compliments, so I would just like to quickly say this is not true. Although it's always nice to receive compliments, I do want and need advice and constructive feedback for the story to help improve future works, I also just like to know people's reactions to things in chapters, so I know I'm doing it right. That's why I want reviews, apologies if all I made it sound like I was asking for praise!_

_I think this chapter I could especially use a hand in. I couldn't think of a decent title for it and it's a bit boring, so any thoughts, ideas or advice would be much appreciated :)_

* * *

><p><span>Fighting Ninjas<span>

I wake up to a strange, bright light that hurts the back of my eyes an want to close them again. There's also an odd, repetitive beeping noise along with the hushed voice of two people who, by the sounds of it, were having an argument.

It takes me a while to remember what happened. I feel completely lost. I don't recognise this place, even though so far all I've seen of it is the ceiling. This isn't home.

The last thing I remember is being in a very dark place, literally not metaphorically this time, and there was some sort of fight...

That's it, there was an assassin, it was _the_ assassin who wrote the marks on the walls and who we had to wait for in the dark.

But that doesn't explain why I'm no longer in 221B Baker Street...

Hang on, I remember there was a mark across my chest, right over my stomach. There was a flash of a blade, and the mark on my shirt was blood. The assassin had cut me, and Sherlock was scared.

I remember feeling no pain and surprisingly calm about the whole thing. I no longer feel calm, but confused, and there is a dull ache across my stomach.

I try looking around a little more, seeing something other from the ceiling. I even try to sit up, but for some reason I find it hard.

"John!"

I suddenly realise there's someone with me. I turn my head a little more to the right and find myself face-to-face with Harry.

My sister looks different from the last time I saw her. She seems healthier, but her eyes are filled with worry.

Why would she be so worried? Oh of course. I've been cut across the stomach, I'm in a bright room and I'm lying in a bed with my family beside me. I'm in hospital. I shouldn't be irritated about the being sound in my ear, I should be grateful, it's my heart beat.

At least I know I'm still alive. Harry seems pleased to see me too, even though she's worried, she has a huge smile on her face and she's clutching my hand tightly with both of hers.

"How are you feeling?" She asks.

"Err... a bit weird." I confess, it's hard to tell how I'm feeling. Still a bit confused really. "Is it very bad?" I ask her slowly, referring to the knife wound, I'm worried about the actual damage done, as I have no idea. I'm in hospital, so it must be more than a scratch.

Harry shrugged, as if it was nothing, but I can tell she's still concerned. "Just a few stitches, nothing my big brother can't handle." She gives me another big smile.

There's a huff at this in the corner of the room, and I turn my head to the left and see Sherlock is also with me. He's sitting in a hospital chair, arms folded, looking like a grumpy child.

Harry didn't look very happy about his presence. "Oh yes, Sherlock's been here with you too, and we've been having lots of fun together!"

Oh dear, this can't be good. When my sister and Sherlock first met, they seemed to get on quite well. Unfortunately, it seems being trapped in a confined space with nothing to do for a long period of time does turn Sherlock in a bad mood and he can get irritable with anyone. That brings me to another thing.

"How long have you two been here?" I wonder.

"Since they brought you in," Harry checked her watch. "Sherlock rang me as soon as he called the ambulance, I came straight over. We've just been waiting for you to regain consciousness."

I nod slowly. "So, how long have I been out for?"

Harry shrugs again, "A few hours."

I feel a little guilty at the thought I might have just left them by my hospital bed for hours in silence. "You know, you didn't have to be here for all that time." I explain to both of them.

"How could we not?" Harry says. "Besides, not even the nurses could get Sherlock to move. He's been sitting there since we arrived, hardly doing anything. I've not even seen him eat or sleep."

I glance over at Sherlock as she says this, but he's decided to not show any eye contact. I wish the people who said or thought that Sherlock Holmes didn't have a heart could be here to hear this. He's been helping me through the worst time of my life and is still with me now. He's probably been alienating the nurses and complaining, but that's not the point.

There's a short silence, and then Harry sighs sadly. "I do wish you wouldn't scare me like this though John."

The guilt settling on my heart gets a little heavier. I didn't mean to get into this much trouble, or worry my sister. I've put her in this situation before, when I got shot in the shoulder, but I didn't actually know how bad that had affected her until now, when I see the sadness and disappointment in her eyes. I'm glad though that our relationship is a lot better that she's willing to sit with me in hospital and talk to me, I don't remember doing that when I was in hospital with a shoulder wound.

Harry must see my guilt though, as she smiles at me again and tries to talk about the subject in a more light-hearted manner.

"Imagine though, my brother fighting a ninja!"

"It wasn't a ninja," came the irritable voice of Sherlock Holmes in the corner, in an exasperated tone that made me think he's probably had this conversation before...

"Well it sounded like one to me!" Harry snapped back. "Wearing all black, climbing up buildings..."

"That doesn't define them as ninjas and why there would be a 15th century Japanese mercenary in Baker Street anyway?"

"That's enough you two," I say quickly as Harry opens her mouth to argue her defence. I'm glad I'm in a private room, it's only a small one, with a single leather chair that Sherlock's taken possession of, a small wooden one that Harry's sitting on and of course a bed with me in, but at least there's no one else in here to listen in to their childish arguments.

The two sigh in annoyance and glare at each other, but the debate ceases. An awkward silence falls so I quickly think of something to say.

"You look tired," I tell my sister.

Harry nods, "obviously I didn't get a good night's sleep last night." She admits. "I'll go and get myself some coffee, wake myself up. Will you be all right for a few minutes?" She asks.

I wave her worried comment away with my hand. "I'll be fine, I'm not going to be going anywhere anytime soon." Although I desperately want to get out of this bed and go home, but perhaps moving around isn't a very good idea at the moment.

Harry doesn't look very convinced, but she gives me a small smile and with a quick squeeze of my hand departs to look for some coffee.

My attention turns in the direction of Sherlock now, who is still sitting in the chair with his arms folded, staring into the distance with a scowl on his face.

"Doesn't sound too bad, fighting a ninja." I comment lightly.

Sherlock doesn't look so convinced. Silence falls again as I watch him closely, there is something in his eyes that tells me something's wrong, something's troubling him quite badly.

Just then, a nurse came in. She looks more pleased to see me than Sherlock, a huge, friendly smile on her face. She looks like she's in her mid-thirties, with chocolate brown hair and bright blue eyes. For a moment though I did see her eyes flit towards the direction of Sherlock, and she doesn't look happy. Seems I may be right about him alienating the nurses.

"Good to see you're with us again Dr Watson," she says, checking my vital signs and my stitches as she talks to me. I've not seen the state of my stomach yet, and perhaps I won't want to for a while. "How are you feeling?"

"All right I think," I've had time to work out I feel more than 'weird'.

"Are you in any pain?" She asks, picking up my chart and jotting some things down.

My stomach does hurt a little, even when I'm not trying to move about, but I decide it's not enough to be given any painkillers. "I'm fine thanks."

"Are you sure?" She checks, and her eyes fall again on Sherlock, and I wonder if it's just a coincidence or she's trying to ask me if my friend's being a pain. He's probably analysed her whole life story and like many people she's not impressed by it.

"Yes I'm fine," I insist. "Any chance I'll be able to go home today?" I ask hopefully.

"Afraid not," says the nurse, smiling again. "We need to make sure you're OK and there's no problem with the stitches. Everything seems fine though, I'm sure you'll be out in no time." She added, before she left the room again.

"It was worth a try," I muttered to myself after the nurse had gone. I turn my attention back to Sherlock, who is still as motionless and grumpy as ever. "Come on Sherlock, why don't you tell me what's wrong?" I ask eventually.

Sherlock remains silent for a few moments, and when he speaks I can hardly see his lips moving. "I think I've lost count of the number of times I've almost killed you."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm fed up of almost getting my friends killed John!" He snapped suddenly. "Everything I do gets you into more danger, if it wasn't for me you wouldn't be here. You were bleeding so much and there was no one nearby to help and I had to call an ambulance. But I thought they weren't going to make it in time. I thought you were going to die by the river and then I was in that situation all over again-"

The consulting detective cut himself off suddenly, as more emotions began to build up in his voice. He didn't look upset, he looked angry. Angry at himself. I opened my mouth to point out to him that none of this was really his fault, it was Moriarty, a mad man who wanted to play games with us. We'd just played his last game and we had won, what was there to be angry about? I'm fine, really.

But before I could say anything Sherlock is speaking again, a lot calmer and matter-of-fact this time, which somehow worries me even more. "Perhaps I should just move out of Baker Street."

If I could leap out of bed, I would have. "What!"

"Move somewhere else, maybe even out of London, just somewhere away from people I don't know and friends I can't hurt." He explained, still very calm about it.

"Sherlock you can't!" It's my turn to snap now, and he looks quite surprised at my outburst. "There's something you don't realise about working and living with you isn't there? It's that as soon as you start, there's no turning back. I already had a boring life before you came along, but now I've lived your life going back to it would be mind-numbingly boring. So I refuse to turn back, you've given me something to live for. I thought I'd lost you once and I'm not going to lose you again, even if I know you're really still alive. When you came back I was so angry I wanted you to leave, and I'm so grateful that you refused because now I've changed my mind. We've gone through so much you can't just disappear again. Friends stick together, and that's exactly what I'm going to do."

Sherlock stared at me, as if I'd just said something totally revolutionary. In fact he had completely frozen, and I wondered if he had heard a word.

"Sherlock are you still there?" I said eventually.

A small smile started to grow over the consulting detective's face. "I'm so relieved you said that."

And I couldn't help but smile too, because he didn't really want to go after all.

Just then, the door opened. It was the same door Harry had left through, so I assumed it was her and didn't look up. Not until Sherlock suddenly spoke:

"Oh no, please, not you! Why you?"

And I turn around to see Mycroft standing in the doorway, umbrella in hand, looking quite pleased with himself.


	22. Brother's Grim

Brother's Grim

"I expected a more of a pleasant greeting after not seeing my dear brother for so long." Mycroft said pleasantly, swinging his umbrella around as he spoke. There was a smile on his face that I did not like. He turned his attention to me. "Sorry I forgot to bring any flowers or grapes for you John. I trust you're feeling better?"

I'm not sure what to say to this. I'm still trying to work out how he found out we were here. But then again, it's Mycroft.

Just then, Harry came back in the room, a cup of steaming-hot coffee in her hands. She looked just as surprised to see Mycroft as we were.

"Who's this?" She asks, sitting back on the wooden chair next to me.

Mycroft's smile widened as at the sight of my sister. "And this must be Miss Harriet Watson! So pleased to see that you've patched things together with your brother now. And I must congratulate you, five months it must be now without a drop of alcohol. Very impressive."

Harry's mouth fell open and she stared, wide-eyed at Mycroft.

My anger started bubbling up inside of me at the thought of Mycroft scaring my sister with his mysterious knowledge, a broad smile still on his face as if he had the right to. I remember the first time he did it to me.

But it was Sherlock who spoke first. "That's enough Mycroft." He snapped. "What are you doing here?"

Mycroft's smile fell a little. "Some things don't change at all with you do they Sherlock? You're not even pleased to see me! I'm pleased to see you, it's not every day you find out your brother managed to survive throwing himself off a building."

It was my turn to stare, but at Sherlock rather than Mycroft. After Sherlock had come back I knew he hadn't seen his brother and explained everything to him, but over time I had assumed that Mycroft knew Sherlock was alive. Mycroft was the one who knew all the secrets, it could have been possible that he knew all along Sherlock was alive, and even if he didn't, they were brothers, surely Sherlock would have given Mycroft at least a hint that he was OK?

Clearly not.

"Sherlock, why didn't you say something to him?" I demanded.

Sherlock shrugged as if it was nothing. "I've been busy, and besides, I didn't want the assassin to have someone else to chase after if all failed."

"Well John, it's nice that you've decided to stick up for me." Mycroft said, "It seems you're in a more forgiving mood since we last met."

Oh yes, I had almost forgot about my last encounter with Mycroft. Almost. It puts me in a bad mood to be carted off into the middle of nowhere at his request any day, but I was in mourning for my friend, and I blamed Mycroft for killing his brother.

Of course I don't think that anymore, because Sherlock was never dead. Although perhaps if it wasn't for him my friend wouldn't have been forced to disappear off the face of the earth for twelve weeks. Mycroft probably still didn't care about people either, so why was he here? Perhaps he had a point to prove.

"Doesn't mean none of what had happened was your fault," I told Mycroft bitterly. "You still gave Moriarty the cards to play with against your own brother."

Mycroft's smile fell a little further. His eyes glanced down at the floor, as if he was actually feeling guilty.

There was a long silence.

"So, now you've been able to upset almost everyone in the room," Harry said suddenly, making Mycroft look up. "Perhaps you would like to tell us what you're doing here Mr Holmes? And perhaps as soon as you do, the sooner you can leave."

Mycroft gave Harry a look that was close to a glare, but she had just said what was on all our minds.

"Well, I came here for nothing really," Mycroft explained calmly. "I just came to make sure that you two are all right."

"Oh come on Mycroft, you're a better liar than that!" Sherlock snapped again.

Mycroft sighed, his eyes looked almost sad. "That's the trouble with you Sherlock," he said. "As soon as we became rivals, you never stopped to think about whether there was a part of me that actually still cared for you. Why else do you think I keep on trying to hire people to spy on you or keep on knocking at the Baker Street door? It's not for my own amusement, and it's not for my own benefit, although you may think it is. It's because I'm actually worried about you. I actually still care about you."

I don't know whether the man was trying to deceive us, but Mycroft actually sounded like he cared about his brother. For the first time, I think Mycroft is actually being truly honest about what he thinks about his brother.

"I suppose you didn't consider what might have been going through my head when I picked up the newspaper one day and discovered that you had just committed suicide? And then your friend turns up, claiming that I was the one who caused you to go over the edge. And perhaps he was right. For a little while I thought that you weren't actually dead, because it's not like my little brother to give up without a fight. But weeks went by, then months, and when I heard nothing from you, not a single word, I assumed you had actually died. Did you assume for all that time that I didn't_ care_ about the fact that you were dead? Well I did, I may have hid it from the world but really, I was in mourning for my brother. "

There was a pang inside of me, and I realised I actually felt sorry for Mycroft. At the time I didn't realise he also blamed himself for the apparent death of his brother, and I gave him a hard time for it, when really he was in mourning for Sherlock. It's hard to trust what that man says, but I can see it in his eyes, he feels sad and betrayed that his brother pretended to die but never actually told him the truth, just like how I felt.

Sherlock in the meantime, was busy staring at the wall, and didn't seem to care about what his brother was saying.

"And then all of a sudden a colleague rings me up in the middle of the night," Mycroft continued, "because he had just found out that a Dr John Watson had been admitted to hospital, along with Sherlock Holmes, my brother, only my brother was dead. So of course I came straight here."

Sherlock raised a disbelieving eyebrow, "colleague?"

"Ok, so maybe I did have a few people keeping an eye on John to make sure he was all right, and they called me up when an ambulance suddenly appeared at 221B Baker Street."

There was a pause, in which I thought Sherlock was thinking over what he had just been told. Perhaps he's going to apologise or give Mycroft an explanation.

Unfortunately not.

"Well, now you've discovered that we're both alive and well you can go back to whatever you're doing at the moment." Sherlock commented lightly, "thanks for visiting."

Mycroft's face fell, clearly his confession had not hit home for Sherlock.

"But Sherlock-" a stunned-looking Harry spoke quietly. "This is your brother. Surely you can't turn away from him after everything?"

"Sorry, but when you've known him as long as I have, it's hard to trust him at all," Sherlock muttered bitterly.

I often wonder what went wrong between these two to make Sherlock despise Mycroft so much, and Mycroft to pretend that he didn't care about his brother at all. Until now. And yet Sherlock still didn't want to know.

"I should say the same to you after you disappeared for months and pretended to be dead. I could have helped you, you know I would have been happy to help-"

"Well I didn't need your help!" Sherlock snaps.

"Oh for goodness sake Sherlock!" It's my turn to snap now. "You managed to help me patch things up with my sister, why can't you two do the same? Admit it, you didn't tell Mycroft you were still alive because you thought the same thing would happen to him as it eventually happened to us - someone will come along and take revenge for Moriarty and your brother will be in danger. Well Moriarty's dead now and so is the assassin that tried to kill us, so there's no more danger. Why don't you just take this opportunity to bury the hatchet?"

Harry nodded in agreement beside me. "He has a point you know, I've only been in this room with you two for about ten minutes and I'm thinking the same thing."

Mycroft smiled, it must be nice for him to have someone on his side this often. Believe me I would not be saying any of this if Sherlock wasn't alive beside me or Mycroft hadn't shown any remorse. But I trust what Mycroft told us.

Sherlock though, didn't look too convinced. "I don't know what a hatchet has to do with anything..." he began.

"Never mind about the hatchet." I said quickly. "Can't you two just try and get along a bit more?"

"You know he's right Sherlock," Mycroft said. This didn't impress Sherlock, I have a feeling he's going back into his being a five-year-old mood. "How about you come and have dinner with me and my family next week? No cases in the way, no rivalry, just two brothers with the rest of the family."

I could see on Sherlock's face that he was trying to think of reasons for not spending time with his brother that Mycroft couldn't argue against. He didn't seem to be getting very far, especially with three other people in the room staring at him.

"You know, I do remember a time when we did get on. I suppose we could give ourselves a chance to find out why." Sherlock murmured, more to himself than to Mycroft, avoiding the eyes of everyone else in the room.

Mycroft smiled at his success. "Wonderful. You're welcome to come as well John."

"Dinner with the whole of the Holmes family? I'll have to think about it," I admit, I see Sherlock smile amusingly out of the corner of my eye.

"Very well," Mycroft replied, still smiling. "I think I've spent enough of your time here now, I have some important business to do. I'm sure I'll see you around John, Harriet," he nodded to both of us, "and I'll see you next week Sherlock, I'll text you the details." He added, just as he turned to leave, umbrella swinging in his hand.

"As always." Sherlock commented, but Mycroft had already gone.

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><p>It's only two days since Mycroft's sudden appearance that I am dismissed from the hospital. I'm relieved, not wanting to be stuck in bed any longer, or trapped in a small space with Sherlock any more. Harry couldn't stay all the time because she had to work, but she came as often as she could. Sherlock didn't have to go anywhere, so he stayed put, and once again I couldn't help but feel grateful.<p>

I didn't have any more visitors other than Mycroft and Harry, only Mrs Hudson who came to see us for a few hours, who brought along cake and almost cried at the sight of me in hospital, she calmed down a little after some cake. I'm looking forward to seeing her again when we finally get back to Baker Street.

But as it turned out, I was going to have one more visitor before I managed to get home.

It's the last few minutes of me being in my little hospital room, I'm grateful to be back in my normal clothes and having a stomach feeling slightly less sore, but the stitches had not yet been removed.

Sherlock stands by the door, waiting as patiently as possible, but I can tell he's desperate to go home. I'm just putting on my coat when I hear the door open, I turn, expecting to see that Sherlock has already left the room, getting fed up of staying still for too long and going to get us a TAXI.

But Sherlock was still in the room, two more people had come in the room. I stared.

Lestrade and Donovan were standing in the doorway, both looking rather grim. I'm just about to ask what they're doing here, but Lestrade answers that question for me.

"Sherlock Holmes, you're under arrest."

For some reason, I don't think I'm going to leave just yet.

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><p><em>Sorry for this dull chapter, I kept on getting stuck on being able to write what I wanted to say! I know it wasn't anything very exciting so instead of starting the next chapter with John about to go home I decided to put it on the end of this one to make it more interesting.<em>

_We're almost at the end of the story now people! D: but there are still a couple more chapters to go :)_

_Anyway, hope this chapter wasn't too bad, reviews much appreciated! :)_


	23. Just like the Old Days

_I'm afraid I've been so busy that I've finished this chapter but haven't had time to properly read it through and check for any mistakes etc. I didn't want to keep you guys waiting though and don't know when I'll have time to read it, so if you see anything that needs changing please let me know :)_

_Anyway, hope this chapter's ok, please review! :)_

Just Like the Old Days

There were a couple of seconds where all three of us just stared at each other, no one really knowing what to think of the whole situation. Donovan was trying not to look smug, while Lestrade looked grumpy and Sherlock, for some reason, perfectly calm.

After a moment Lestrade seemed to realise I'm in the room as well. "Sorry about this John," he said. "How are things?"

I'm not sure why the detective was trying to make conversation with me while he arrested my friend, perhaps he's feeling a little guilty for suddenly appearing out of nowhere with some unpleasant news. "I'm all right," I said with a shrug. "Though these idiots have just come along to arrest Sherlock," Lestrade shifted on his feet, looking awkward, while Sherlock gave a smile. "Any reason why?" I prompt.

"Is it because I'm alive?" Sherlock asked, "because in that case, you can arrest yourself."

Lestrade actually went a little pink as I couldn't help but laugh at Sherlock's statement, Donovan just glared at us.

But then the conversation turned more serious, and Sherlock's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "How did you_ know_ I was alive?"

"Tip off," Donovan explained, even though it wasn't a very good explanation.

Sherlock scowled, "I bet it was Mycroft," he muttered, "right, that's it, dinner's off next week."

"No it's not!" I snap quickly, Sherlock had been trying to think of ways to get out of dinner with Mycroft since his brother left the hospital, and I wasn't even going to let this surprise arrest become an excuse.

"That's enough!" Donovan said quickly, as she could see an argument was just about to break out. "Sherlock, you're under arrest for fraud, kidnap, and I wouldn't be surprised if we find you guilty of murder as well."

I suppose she expected Sherlock to be angry at this statement, or perhaps even confess, but instead he rolled his eyes and groaned as if Donovan was someone trying to sell him something and would not leave him alone. "Really? That's the reason? I assumed you would have dropped the case after I'd died."

"We had," Lestrade confessed, still looking uncomfortable about the whole situation "but now you're alive again...we still want to question you about being a fake consulting detective."

"For goodness sake, he's not a fake!" I snapped. It surprised even me that despite all the weeks that had past, the theory that Sherlock was a fraud still upset me.

Sherlock though, had become surprisingly calm. "It's fine John, this is nothing to worry about."

I'm not so sure. But the look in Sherlock's eyes told me he had an idea, and I decided not to argue and point out the obvious reasons why this _is _something to worry about. Already I find myself wishing for a quiet day, when Sherlock wasn't causing trouble and accused of trouble he hadn't even caused. Not that I would ever give up this life now.

Sherlock turned his attention to Donovan, his grey eyes burning into her and making her shift uncomfortably. "The boy who was kidnapped and poisoned with mercury, he was unconscious last time I heard anything about him, but he's woken up now, hasn't he?"

Donovan definitely looked uncomfortable now. "Yes...but-"

"And he was more willing to talk than his sister?"

"He was...but-"

"So he told you what really happened?"

Donovan really didn't like where this conversation was going. I've never seen her under pressure before. Can't say I feel sorry for her, I still remember what she said about Sherlock when she randomly appeared at Baker Street.

But before she could answer, Lestrade spoke. "The boy said the man who kidnapped him was wearing a mask, when we asked him to describe the mask, it sounded just like you."

Donovan glowered at him, as if giving Sherlock this information was a betrayal.

Sherlock gave a knowing smile. "So why would I be wearing a mask of my own face? Seems a bit pointless, don't you think?"

"The boy could have been mistaken!" Donovan said quickly. "That's no proof to say that you're not a fake!"

"Your sister-in-law is stilling giving you trouble then?" Sherlock spoke quietly.

Donovan stared at him, "what are you talking about? And what has that got to do with anything?"

Sherlock sighed, as if it was obvious. "Because you're one of those people who always take their problems into work. I hear you talking on the phone to someone called your 'brother' about someone called 'Susan' who by the tone of your voice you clearly don't like, and you always promise to go and see him up in London only your facial expression always says that you don't want to. That's not cheating by the way, that's listening," he added, turning and looking pointedly at me, before going back to Donovan. "It wouldn't be your brother that you don't like because he wears the clothes he gets you - you're wearing one right now, the labels sticking out a little on the back and he's written a little note to his dear sister at Christmas." He gestures at the flowery blouse Donovan's wearing. "Of course you would have worn something he bought you when you go up to see him today, which you have because I can see the train ticket still sticking out your pocket with today's date, also suggesting that you were in a rush. Anyway the point is I've seen you wear that top before when you haven't gone up to London, which means you appreciate what your brother gets you and care for him. The top's fairly new though and it doesn't say it's from Susan, which suggests that you don't get or want a gift from her. The fact that you're always reluctant to go up and see your brother even though you get on well means there must be something keeping you away, something that can't be gotten rid of. In this case, it's the sister-in-law. You've visited her and your brother today and as usual, she's annoyed you, so now you come back home and discover that I'm still alive, so without even bothering to go home you stuff the ticket in your pocket and demand to go right to where I've been spotted. It's quite obvious, really."

There's a long silence, in which Donovan does a very good impression of a cod fish. Both me and Lestrade are trying to hide any emotion that might be emerging on our faces (as the silent seconds tick by it's getting really hard for me not to laugh). Sherlock just looks quite pleased with himself.

Finally, Donovan managed to find her voice. "How did you know..."

"I just explained how I knew, weren't you listening?" Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh and I can tell you've not gone home yet because there's a stain on your trousers, looks like bolognaise sauce, you always dress so smartly, you would have noticed and changed, your hair doesn't look brushed either."

Donovan was slowly growing red. "You always do this to people! It just shows you're a fraud!"

"No, I just made an example to show I'm not a fraud, how does that show I'm a fraud?" Sherlock demanded.

Donovan turned to Lestrade, "it's obvious isn't it? He's been spying on me! He listens into phone calls and follows people, that's how he knows everything!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes again. "Oh yes, because while I was pretending to be dead I was actually stalking you. Please, I have better things to do than _that_! And besides, I don't need to spy on people, I can learn everything from observation. And that does not make me a fraud."

"But-" Donovan opened her mouth to argue, however she was interrupted before she could get any further.

"Oh shut up Donovan, I knew this wouldn't be a good idea!" Lestrade snapped. "I never wanted to arrest Sherlock in the first place!"

We all stared at Lestrade, taken aback by the side he had taken.

Donovan went even redder. "Sir how can you-"

"Because what he says is true. The boy did see a man in a mask, you do talk to your brother on the phone who lives up in London, and you really don't like Susan." He turned his attention to us. "Sorry about the disturbance, but it turns out to be a waste of time, no one needs to be arrested here."

Sherlock looks quietly satisfied. While Donovan is about to open his mouth to argue again.

"In actual fact," Lestrade continued, "I've got a case right now that I'm having a bit of trouble with, would you mind helping out?"

Sherlock grinned, "Not at all."

"But Sir-" Donovan started.

But Lestrade had run out of patience. "Listen, your idea of Sherlock being a fraud was on thin ice from the start and if you keep on arguing your case after I have made up my mind then your job might be as well."

That shut Donovan up.

"I have some things to sort out at Scotland Yard, I'll see you there?" Lestrade said, Sherlock nodded.

Lestrade left the room, Donovan slinking after him with a miserable look on her face. Sherlock and I just stared at each other for a little while, before we grinned at each other.

"So John, looks like we might have a pit-stop at Scotland Yard before we go back home, is that all right with you?"

"Absolutely."

And all of a sudden, it was just like the old days.


	24. Epilogue

_This is the last chapter everyone! :O That's right, we've come to the end of the story!_

_ I hope you've enjoyed it, I must admit I've found this particular one a challenge, as I don't usually write this sort of stuff, but I enjoy setting challenges for myself in writing, I just hope it didn't come across in the story :)_

_If you did enjoy this story, I've written other stuff, Sherlock and non-Sherlock, which you're very welcome to read if you're interested :) I've also got a book, called Poppy Girl, on sale on the Kindle! There's details on my profile about it if you're curious and you can read the first couple of chapters for free so you can see if it's something worth reading :)_

_Anyway, thank you so much to everyone who has alerted, favourited and reviewed! (Special thanks to regular and wonderful reviewers F.T.L Everdeen Holmes and Rainbowcapillaries) and thank you especially to you, the reader, who managed to read this story all the way through to the end! I hope it's been worthwhile :)_

* * *

><p><span>Epilogue<span>

"I've got it John, I've figured it out!" Sherlock burst into the room of 221B Baker Street, I look up from my laptop to see a huge grin on his face as he carried a large and heavy-looking box. I can't help but laugh at my friend's expression.

"What are you talking about now Sherlock?" I ask, turning back to my lap top and just finishing the blog on our most recent case. I forgot how much I enjoyed writing my blog, and how much I missed it.

It's been twelve weeks since Lestrade and Donovan appeared in my hospital room with a poor attempt to arrest Sherlock. Since then we've already solved five cases and things have pretty much got back to normal, even though most things in my life aren't exactly normal.

Although there was one particular thing that wasn't quite the same...Sherlock, and his current personal case of trying to 'fix things'.

"I've finally worked out how to work things out," Sherlock added, as if to prove my point. He placed the box down on the only spare space on the table in front of me. "This is how I can make things up to you."

Since my brief stay in hospital, Sherlock's guilt seems to have escalated, and hasn't ceased. He keeps on trying to find a way to make up with trying to abandon me and then almost getting me killed. I've forgiven him a long time ago, but he still blames himself, and keeps on finding ways to try and make up for the problems he created.

I shake my head, "Sherlock, for the final time you don't need to fix things for me." But there was little I could do to persuade the man otherwise, I keep on trying to tell him the same things but he decides to ignore me. By the huge grin on his face, it looks like I'm still not getting through, and it may be too late, as in Sherlock's view whatever's in the box has fixed the things that don't need fixing.

He pushes the box towards me. I'm really hoping it's not someone's severed head, it's bad enough when they're in the fridge, I don't want one as a present, even if it's Moriarty's.

But when I look into the box, I find it's not a head, or any body part. Nothing human at all actually.

"Sherlock...why is there a bulldog pup in a box?" I ask slowly.

"His name is Gladstone, and it would ruin the surprise if I brought him in on a lead!" Sherlock exclaim, which seems to be the only explanation he's going to give me.

I look back down inside the box. The bulldog pup stares up at me with small, black eyes. He's white with brown blotches down his back, I'm surprised by how small he is. He's almost cute, but I try not to get too attached.

"Sherlock...we can't have a bulldog."

I have a feeling this is going to be something that Sherlock is going to decide he can't understand. His brow furrows in concern. "His name is Gladstone, and why not?"

"Because...we can't have a dog! What's Mrs Hudson going to say?"

Sherlock shrugs, "I'm sure we can persuade her to keep him, beside, I've already named him, there's not going back now."

I have a horrible feeling he may be right..."Sherlock, who's going to look after this do-"

"Gladstone." Sherlock corrects me.

"Who's going to look after _Gladstone_? We're going to have to walk him and feed him and everything. Can we even afford a dog?" I ask.

"He's small, he won't cost that much."

"He's going to grow." I warn.

Sherlock shrugs again, "I'm sure you can figure something out."

Of course _I_ will. I don't think I'm going to have much choice anyway. The dog won't stop staring at me though, and he is cute. "We can't call him Gladstone Sherlock."

"Why not?"

"Because that's such a 19th Century name, no one calls their pets Gladstones anymore!" I point out.

Of course, what everyone else thinks doesn't matter to Sherlock. "Well, maybe we should bring the trend back." He suggests. "And there's no point arguing with me John," he adds as he sees me shake my head in exasperation. "You can't change my mind about keeping Gladstone or changing his name. We're keeping him, and that's final."

The dog, or rather, Gladstone, gives a small woof of approval. I would say at least he'll keep Sherlock out of trouble, but I don't think anyone or anything can keep Sherlock out of trouble. It is a very cute bulldog pup though. I can't help but reach inside the box and give him a scratch behind the ears.

I sigh, pretending to give in, even though the thought of having a dog was starting to appeal to me. "All right, we can keep him, but _only_ if Mrs Hudson says yes!"

Sherlock grins again at his success, then takes Gladstone out his box. The little puppy looks as surprised as I feel to see Sherlock almost _cuddling_ something. "I'll go and find some food for him. Dogs don't eat vegetables, right?"

"Of course they don't!" I say, as Sherlock takes Gladstone into the kitchen. For a consulting detective, his knowledge in some things is truly unbelievable. It's going to be interesting with a dog in the household now.

However I suddenly find myself turning to another subject, something that occasionally nags me in the back of the head. "We never found out you know," I call to Sherlock, who's still in the kitchen.

"Found out what?" Sherlock calls back.

"Who tipped off Lestrade about you being alive and me in hospital. And Mycroft for that matter."

Sherlock comes back from the kitchen, Gladstone-less (we've barely had the dog for five minutes and I'm already worrying about the poor thing), shrugging. "Like I said, it was probably Mycroft who tipped the police off, and he's got people everywhere watching everything, it was only a matter of time before they noticed me. I'm sure there's nothing to be suspicious about."

I shake my head, this doesn't seem to make sense. Sherlock's been out the house before, that's how we thought that assassin realised he was alive, but why had this stranger not noticed? "But Mycroft says he didn't tell the police, and he hasn't told us who told him. It just seems very...strange. I feel like someone's been watching us." I can't help but shiver at the thought. It reminds me far too much about Moriarty.

But my friend doesn't seem so worried. "If there's someone out there, we're sure to find them one day John, and you shouldn't let the unknown scare you. We've faced some pretty bad events already, so whatever's out there, we shouldn't be fearful of it, rather, fearless."

I know when he says 'bad events' Sherlock's talking about the times we encountered Moriarty, the twelve weeks when I thought my best friend was dead, and the number of times one of us has almost died for real. Although perhaps Sherlock's right, we shouldn't let those things hold us back, but drive us forward. I've had enough of the darkness pushing me down, I've managed to fight the darkness off, so now I should find a way to benefit from it, rather than let it leave me in fear.

Sherlock wonders back into the kitchen to check on the new member of the household while I consider this. Suddenly, I'm not worried about the unknown, the future seems very bright, and I'm not fearful at whatever the world might throw at us next. In fact, bring it on.

Just then, I hear Sherlock call to me from the kitchen. "Joohn! Gladstone's peed on the kitchen floor, you need to clean it up!"

Well, I suppose things could be worse...

* * *

><p><em>So, that's it from me folks! Though I'm sure this won't be the last Sherlock fanfic I write! I know I've left it with a couple of things left to be tied up, but at the moment I don't think I'm going to do a sequel for it, despite my love for Gladstone the dog :) I think it's good to leave a bit of mystery behind in a story...<em>

_Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it people! Would love to know what you thought of this chapter and the story overall, so if you could drop me one last review, it would be really appreciated :)_

_Thanks again for reading!_

_All the best, Naisa x_


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